Rock the Boat
by thisisforyou
Summary: COMPLETE! Meeting Gavin Kavanagh wasn't going at all the way I'd expected. It would take some huge adventure to bring us together... A chapterfic of the Quentin's-daughter-lives-on-the-boat persuasion. Don't read if you don't swear, because I do.
1. Stampede

**A/N: I started this when extremely bored in study class, and finished this chapter in the hour I was waiting for my pizza last night with my mother in an absolutely stupid mood (I love her so much) playing obscene word games and throwing salami at the waiter, and let's not mention peeing ourselves in the movie theater because we could see spit flying from Ben Chaplin's mouth when he was giving Mark Anthony's balcony speech in _Me and Orson Welles_ (brilliant movie. Love you forever, Mum.) **

**Anywho, those of you who only decided to read this story because you think Gavin is "so beautiful it's impossible to talk to him, you just want to have sex with him" (his words, not mine), I apologise; he's not actually here yet. He'll come along later, when he's needed to make the story flow. I also apologise for the chronic unoriginality of the events in this story: absolutey all of them except the Charades game (thanks again, Mum, for the stampede idea) and the one-on-one conversations with Courtenay were stolen from the deleted scenes on disc.**

**I own nothing, of course, except the clothes on my back, and Courtenay. **

**Updates should be reasonable; I'm managing to churn the stuff out quite fast. Anyway, I hope you enjoy... free cookie for each review!**

**-for you**They were sunbathing when I got there, twenty-two years old, broke and brok_en _through too many cigarettes and late-night drinks and too much rock music. I'm still convinced that it was the rock music that did it, which makes ironic sense in ways Mum wouldn't even begin to understand. Sending me to the boat was her last resort, her 'oh-no-you-didn't' reaction to the final straw, that shout where her voice broke in anger: "Go live with your father!"

* * *

Sometimes I wonder if she even knew the man. Then I realise that if she did, she wouldn't have wasted years of my life trying to straighten me out. I was always more like Dad. I think that's what hurt her the most, that after twenty-two years of living with her, only her, day in and day out, I still turned out to be more like a man she'd known for a few hours, and the only thing he'd ever given her was his sperm.

I don't think she knew about the radio. I also think this was probably a good thing. If she'd known _he_ was the one who gave me the means to play Eric Clapton and the Rolling Stones at top volume twenty-four/seven she would have blown some kind of steam valve.

So, anyway, there they were, just lying there in the sun, doing nothing, looking like they'd been doing it for too long to mention stopping. I'd worn skimpy orange shorts because of the weather, and the moment I saw the assortment of bacheloresque males lying on _Radio Rock_'s deck, I regretted the decision.

No, actually. It was the moment _they_ saw _me_. The way they jumped up and ran to the railings like bulls in a farmer's paddock. I began to feel enormously intimidated.

Dad wasn't there. In fact, he hadn't even told them I was coming. As I climbed over the railing, feeling like I was about to be charged, a tubby blonde man with a generous covering of facial insulation took my hand and kissed it with a strongly American comment of "What can a bunch of guys like us do for a girl like you?"

I removed my hand from his reach and tried not to wipe it on my shorts. "I'm looking for Quentin? I'm Courtenay. Didn't he tell you I was coming?"

A man at he back of the crowd, wearing very square glasses and reminding me irresistibly of Kermit the Frog squeaked out "I'll go get him" and ran away.

"Well, Courtenay," the blonde man purred, "I'm the Count."

"Oh, _you're_ the Count?" I repeated, suddenly excited. "I'd imagined you to be less… um…"

"Handsome?" he suggested, rubbing his beard. I shook my head, grinning.

"Pudgy," put in a thickset man with ginger hair and tartan shorts and an accent I couldn't place.

That _was_ the word I'd been looking for, but I settled for "Hairy."

In the next few minutes, I was introduced to the people I'd been listening to for years: Angus 'the Nut' Nutsford, Simple Simon Swafford, Dr. Dave, Thick Kevin and even Midnight Mark lifted a cigarette at me from where he lay topside.

Then the door that led inside opened and out stepped an unnaturally thin and wiry man wearing a suit and scarf despite the weather. I knew him at once, even though I'd never met him. He looked exactly like he sounded on paper.

I would have hugged and probably even kissed him, despite not being a typically emotional person, but he didn't really seem the type.

"Hello, Darling," he said in that way he has, that I didn't know back then but now recognise faster than my face in the mirror. "I see you've been introduced to the crew."

He turned to the rest of them in a matter-of-fact way. "Crew, this is my daughter Courtenay. I probably should have mentioned it earlier, but she'll be living with us until she gets bored." He looked at me sideways. "Or until her mother claims her back." I shared his grin.

"Daughter?" came the loud question from Dr. Dave, the fat bloke in the thick glasses. "Quentin, how did _you_ make something that gorgeous?" I would have blushed if I'd found him even remotely attractive.

"I assure you it was accidental," Dad replied airily. "Now. I'd just like to make it clear to all of you that there are some _rules_ around this arrangement." He said it in a way that from anyone else would have seemed businesslike, but from him made me want to laugh. "Number One: on no account is she to fall in love with any of you. That means hands will need to be kept in pockets," he looked pointedly at Dr. Dave. "Number Two: her gender does not automatically put her ahead of you when it comes to cooking and dishes and all that stuff. Got it?" I grinned as they all nodded obediently. "Good. Well then, Courtenay," he said, turning to me and opening his arms quirkily, "Welcome aboard."

I hugged him, albeit gently; he was so skinny I thought he might break.

I hadn't expected him to be so fatherly. I mean, he _was_, and all, but I'd never met the guy before. That first day he treated me like I'd just come back from spending a year at my mother's, not a lifetime. But I wasn't complaining; that day, a month before the Christmas leading up to my twenty-third birthday, heralded the coming of the best years of my life.

* * *

For a while, Dad was a bit over-protective. He'd stop the boys from playing pratical jokes on me and make sure I was first in the bathroom in the morning. Then he realised that I'd rather make my own way and earn my place with them, put up with the whoopee-cushions on my seat and fight my way into the bathroom queue rather than have their affection forced by his hand.

That Christmas he hired a cook, Felicity; he said he was sick of the quality of food on the boat, but I think he did it to give me some female company. Felicity was bubbly and bright, although a little meek and timid, and I loved her assortment of bright knitted jerseys and hats.

Then, for my twenty-third birthday in April, the boys banded together and shifted room for me on the air; soon I was broadcasting with the others. It was the best thing in the world, knowing that ninety-three million people were listening to me and my music and loving me for exactly who I was, which I'd never had before. The DJs on _Radio Rock _didn't care if I smoked too many cigarettes or played too much Jimi Hendrix. They, too, loved me for who I was, not who they wanted me to be.

I wouldn't have gone back to Mum for the world. Dad knew that, too, and it was funny to watch his face every time he mentioned her, which he did compulsively at first, then relaxed and started to let it go.

Today he seemed nervous somehow, and I considered the fact that I could tell some sort of momentous induction into the tribe of _Radio Rock_. Quentin had this air of ease and class about him, an impeccable calm that was impossible to shake.

"Court," he said casually, the two of us ensconced cosily in his cabin drinking Cognac, "how would you feel if my godson Carl came to live with us?"

"Do I know Carl?" I asked; he was asking as though I might object.

"No."

"So why are you asking me? You didn't ask everyone if it was all right when I turned up, did you? You didn't even tell them I was coming!"

"No," he replied. "But you're my daughter and I felt like I should ask you first."

I smiled. "Would now be an appropriate time to tell you that I love you?"

He smiled back and patted my hand assuredly. "I wanted so badly to make a good impression on you. I wanted to be a real father to you, you know?"

"Well, you succeeded," I replied lightly. The rush of affection I was feeling for my old man spilled out of my mouth cheesily. "You're the best father I could ever imagine. Honest, Dad. So, what's Carl like?"

"I don't know," he said, chuckling. "I've never met him."

I left twenty minutes later feeling thoroughly touched. I'd never felt like Mum thought I was anything more than a burden, but Dad treated me like a princess even before we met. And even though I was twenty-five years old now, it still felt good to be somebody's angel. Daddy's girl through and through, I turned out to be.

Outside the cabin, I walked straight into the Count. "Whoa, watch it, girlie," he said, picking me up and putting me back on my feet. I don't know why he called me girlie; an American thing, I guess. "So, what's going on?"

I grinned; the Count knew that the best way to get the latest news was to ask me. "Daddy's godson Carl's mother apparently had the same idea as mine, so he's coming to live on the boat… hey," I said suddenly as the thought struck me, "is there enough room?"

"Yeah, he can bunk with Thick Kevin." I smiled, imagining what bunking with Thick Kevin would be like. "I actually came down here to let you guys know dinner's up."

"Wow," I said. "You came all this way just to tell us that there was food where you came from? Talk about a workout." I poked his expanse of stomach. He chuckled dryly.

"Well, you don't eat enough," he replied, poking my stomach in turn. I tensed. "Jesus, that's hard. Do you do sit-,ups in your room or something?"

I snorted. "Hardly. I swim, you know that. It's really not that hard," I teased. He looked down at himself ruefully. "And I don't think you thought it over when you came down."

"Why's that?"

"Getting down the stairs is the easy part. It's going back up." He looked back up the stairs and I could see my friendly jibe reflected in his lively eyes.

I liked the Count; he had an easy, laid-back manner and was extremely easy to wind up. He'd been new on the boat when I was, a replacement for the great Gavin Kavanagh that I'd been so desperate to meet. He teased me flirtatiously, but I always knew he wasn't the slightest bit serious about wanting to screw me. I slapped his stomach again and darted up the stairs; his surprised laugh followed me eerily, but he didn't take the bait.

* * *

Back on deck, the nightly game, Charades tonight, was in full swing. Everyone held plates laden with bacon butties, the oil seeping quietly through the bread. I could have kissed Felicity. Her bacon sandwiches were to die for. I grabbed the Count's plate off the benchtop. "I love you, Felicity," I told her earnestly. She smiled meekly, noticing that I hadn't taken my usual plate but saying nothing.

I sat down between Dave and Simon. Dave ignored me; Simon took one look at my plate and laughed. "Can you fit all that in your little stomach?" he asked.

"I don't know," I replied truthfully, "but I'm going to try." He grinned. "And besides, I always know you'll carry me to bed if I eat so much I can't move."

"All right!" Dave cried exuberantly. "My turn!" He bounced up and took a card.

The floor shook as he jumped up and landed heavily. "Earthquake," I guessed. He gave me a scathing look and repeated the gesture with one foot.

"Jump."

"Land?"

"Stamp." I looked up as the Count walked in with Quentin. I shrank back in my seat and took a huge bite of my sandwich, trying not to sigh with pleasure.

The Count noticed straightaway. "Courtenay," he said, picking up the larger of the two plates and advancing on me threateningly "I believe you have something that belongs to me."

I shook my head, my mouth full. "Nope." I fully expected him to retaliate, but to my surprise, he laughed and went to sit in an armchair.

Dave had stopped his jumping at the Count's 'stamp' guess and now had his hand curled around his groin as though relieving himself, exaggerating the gesture until all of us immature people were nearly doing it ourselves with laughter.

"Pee," the Count suggested calmly. It was a clear sign that our conversation was over, which left me defeated and put out with the mother of all bacon sandwiches on my knee. I took another bite happily and let the taste smother my tongue; it wouldn't be the mother of all bacon sandwiches for long.

Dave was motioning for more with one hand while still gripping his imaginary penis with the other. "Peeing?" Simon tried hopefully. Dave mime-zipped his fly.

"Peed!" Angus cried.

I jumped up. "Stampede!"

"Yes!" I triumphantly minced to the scoreboard and drew up points under mine and Dave's name.

Much later, Angus, Simon and Dave carried me to bed, and life on _Radio Rock_ progressed as normal.

* * *

**A/N: Yes? Working? Next chapter I'm taking the idea from the deleted scene 'Eggs' from the movie and I'll steadily work my way through all 12 or so of the ones I can incorporate in, somehow or another. No, I'm not just going to re-tell the story of the film with an extra character added in; the only event I think I'll go over in any detail is Simon and Elenor's marriage and split etc, and that just to build Gavin's character. I don't foresee any slash or pairings of any kind, really. Just platonic. Review with feedback/suggestions and I will send a picture of a cookie or a cake to you; if you give a really detailed review I'll send both. OK? See you next time!**

**-for you!**


	2. Eggs

**A/N: It's very difficult to type with a broken and very sticky 'o' key. Especially when you have a character called the Count. Unfortunate. If I did slip up anywhere in this or the last chapter, let me know. My rating covers the F word by principle because there are so many of them in the movie, but the Count-without-an-o word is something else entirely.**

* * *

It was raining when Carl arrived. I tried not to think of it as a sign. It happened without incident: one moment I'd never met him, the next I had, and that was it. He ticked all the right boxes in the 'lifestyle' department, kicked out of school for smoking pot, also smoked cigarettes, had nothing to live for back on land. I liked him straightaway.

He wasn't much to look at, though, young Carl. The awkwardness of pubescence still hung about his limbs, and he was skinny in a way that suggested malnourishment rather than exercise. I smiled at the thought of the fun Felicity was going to have feeding him up.

The crew started testing him as soon as they saw him. He turned out sort of average; could hold his breath longer than the Count but not as long as me, could rap better than Angus but not as well as Simon.

His common sense, though, was disappointing. His first _real_ test, the subtle but cruel one, came on a sunny Sunday, three days after he arrived. I was inside, having a staring competition with Simon while John tapped on his typewriter in the background.

Simon was unnaturally good at staring competitions. He didn't seem to have to blink as much as a normal human being. I was therefore determined to beat him someday, but it didn't look like that day was going to be today. My eyes were starting to water.

I was just about to give up when the door banged open and I started. Unfortunately, for me, starting meant blinking and Simon crowed with triumph. I scowled and turned to Dave, who had interrupted. "Putting the two halves of our conversation together," he continued, and Carl followed him in, "I will give you ten pounds, if you will let me break four of these eggs," he held up a six-pack carton, "on your head."

"Ooh, ten English pounds," Simon backed pointedly. I opened my mouth to tell him not to do it, but then stopped; I knew this test. Dave had done it on me, too, and I knew that Carl would be a fool to trust him. If it was me, I'd want to be left to make my own decisions.

"Wait," said Carl slowly, "so, ten pounds, four eggs," he held up four fingers, looking like he couldn't quite believe his ears, "on my head." He pointed to it. I bit my lip. He was going to fall for it.

"On your head," Dave repeated. "Do we have a deal?"

I shook my head slightly, involuntarily; Simon grabbed my arm, his fingernails digging into my wrist painfully. "Don't," he hissed.

"Absolute deal!" Carl agreed, holding out his hand. Dave took it delightedly.

"Wow," he said, not quite believing that he'd actually said yes. "If you'd like to come this way…" he led Carl to a seat in front of the dinner table. Simon leapt excitedly to sit behind the table, dragging me with him.

"Can I take my jacket off?" Carl asked.

"Absolutely, yeah," Dave replied. "Corduroy and eggs… uh-uh." I scratched my head awkwardly. John came and sat next to me, looking as though he felt the same way I did.

"You just sit down there." Carl put his jacket down and sat in the chair. "Ok. Egg Number One:" He held it up. I was vaguely aware of Angus as he walked in, looking like he'd just won the lottery. Then Dave brought the egg down on Carl's stupid head with a resounding _crack_.

I have to admit, hearing the egg break and seeing the expression on his face as the yolk ran down his forehead and into his eyes was enormously satisfying. It was that cruel, satisfying pleasure when you watch someone else pay the price for a mistake you, too, made long ago. I still wasn't looking forward to the end, but Egg One wasn't so bad. Simon slowly let go of my arm.

Thick Kevin walked in, wearing his usual vacantly interested expression. "Ten pounds, eh?" Dave said happily, stretching out the moment, enjoying the pain. "You could buy seven albums with that –"

"Yeah, sorry, but could we get this over with, please, because it's not very nice," Carl interrupted, trying not to open his mouth too wide. My hand twitched; Simon grabbed it again.

"Yeah, absolutely," Dave said, though he sounded slightly guilty now. He held up the second egg like a magician insisting there's no trickery in his act. "Egg Two."

_Crack_. A few of the boys reacted this time with short intakes of breath. It was mesmerizing, watching him sit there and take it, pound-signs reflected in his pupils. I wanted to look away, but somehow found myself watching anyway, just as enthralled as everyone else.

"Egg Number Three," Dave said, obeying Carl's wish to get it over with. "_Oeuf Toi_."

_Crack._ I was almost holding my breath, nauseated with remembered sensation as the egg dripped across his forehead. Everyone gasped this time, a few 'eew's escaping too. I wrenched my arm out of Simon's grasp and put my head in my hands.

"You know what?" said Dave, his voice slightly muffled through my fingers, "I shan't cast Egg Four."

"What?"

"I think I'll just… leave it there…" I looked up as he put it back in the carton gently. My pity for Carl as I saw his face made me want to shove that egg down Dave's trousers.

"So… so I get… seven pounds, ten shillings, then?" Carl asked, crestfallen.

"No. You see, the deal was, four eggs, ten pounds; we didn't make any three-egg deal."

Carl looked at us, looking so horrified that my heart almost broke. "Wait, you're…" he laughed nervously, "you're joking."

Dave laughed too. "No."

"Yeah," Simon agreed. "You should have made a deal for three eggs."

"Always make the three-egg deal," John added sadly.

"You're too greedy, mate!" Angus offered delightedly.

"You shouldn't have trusted the asshole!" I exploded angrily.

"That is so unbelievably unfair," Carl said unnecessarily, looking as though he was about to go into shock.

"It _is_ unfair," Dave answered. "And that's the important lesson I was trying to teach you – life is unfair." He started a round of applause, which the others joined. I looked around in surprise at how many of us were there; everyone but Harold, the Count and Mark, who were about to switch shifts at broadcasting, and Quentin. Kevin had that look on his face like he thought he was being intelligent but didn't quite know why he was clapping.

"You are a bastard," stated Simon.

Dave smiled awkwardly. "Well, it may seem that way, but I think you'll find I'm a nice guy really, under… underneath…" he looked around, laughing nervously, the clapping gone, as the general opinion took a shift against him.

Simon laughed too. "Way underneath."

"Well," I said, sensing my moment, "lesson learned, don't you think?" the others nodded. I vaulted the table, picked up Egg Four and turned to look at Dave. He seemed to think it was destined for _his_ head; he cowered. I stood there for a moment, letting him sweat, then in one movement turned and brought the egg down on Carl's head. "I'll pay your ten fucking quid."

I made to walk out, but found the Count blocking the doorway. "What you do now, Dave, is you tell her you'll give her _twenty_ if she'll lick it all off."

I composed my game face and turned back to the Doctor. Poor Carl looked absolutely terrified; he really was having a hard time of his first week.

Dave also glanced at him. "I'd love to, but I wouldn't do that to Young Carl."

I narrowed my eyes viciously at him. "All right, Doctor Dave," I said, camping up the defeated-villain look, "I'll let you have the last laugh this time."

I threw the Count a _not-this-time_ look, turned and walked out, smiling a little smile to myself; his last laugh would be very short-lived indeed.

* * *

"He did that to me, too, you know," I said kindly, handing Carl a tenner.

He smiled, a genuine, rogueish sort of smile that I instantly liked. "You don't have to," he said, not taking the banknote.

"No, seriously, take it," I insisted, reaching past his hands and stuffing it in his coat pocket.

"Okay, then," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. I grinned approvingly and sat down on a deckchair.

We were topside, looking out at the waves. It was Wednesday and twilight was falling; the water sparkled as though a thousand diamonds had been cast carelessly across the sea. He sat down next to me. I offered him a cigarette and lit one myself.

"So what happened?"

"When?" I blew a stream of smoke out and watched it dissipate.

"When Dave did the thing with the eggs to you."

I laughed. "Oh." I paused, remembering. "I wasn't too bummed. I didn't really think he'd give it to me, right from the start, you know? I did it more to show them that I was game than anything else. I was laughing it off when Dad showed up. He paid me in the end."

Carl laughed too. "I can't really imagine the guy who owns _this_ having a daughter," he mused.

"One-night stand," I explained shortly. "Mum can't even remember what he looks like." I took another drag and eyed my exhalations critically. "He's a good father, though. I first wrote to him when I was seven, and he wrote back, no questions asked. Sent me awesome presents every Christmas and birthday, records mostly." I held out my foot. "He gave me these the birthday before he invited me here."

"They're cool," Carl said hesitantly, looking at my black pirate-boots. I laughed at his obvious lack of women's-fashion-knowledge. There was silence for a while, but a comfortable one that I didn't feel the need to fill at all. "So what do you think of it? The boat, I mean?"

"It's home," I said simply. He looked at me expectantly, so I expanded. "I _love_ it. I belong here. I have a proper family, and I can listen to music all day without people yelling at me to turn it off or turn it down…"

"So you _are_ here because of the music?"

"You can't not be," I told him. "I never understood how people can not like rock. It…" I struggled for words to express the _life_ that came purely from rock and roll. "It's the only thing that makes sense of the world. It's _life_, it's energy, it's… fuck, I wouldn't _get up_ in the morning if I didn't have rock and roll."

"Okay," said Carl gently. "So… a lot of passion there."

I laughed. "There is nothing on this earth that can make you feel as good, as fast, as _Hold me, love me, hold me, love me, __I ain't got nothing but love, babe, eight days a week…_"

"All right, fair enough." Carl created a rather pregnant pause. "How did you end up here?"

I giggled at the memory. "Mum got sick of me lying on her couch because of my measly lifeguard salary and blasting my disrespectful junk of a record collection through her house, so she pulled the final threat and sent me to lie on Dad's couch instead. I don't think she knew that she was actually fulfilling my dreams and sending me to live with my heroes…."

He caught the irony and laughed. "Sorry if this is becoming a bit like 20 Questions, but… who's your favorite DJ?"

"That's okay." I thought. "Simon. He's not afraid to make a complete arse of himself on the radio for the sake of comedy. And it works, he's funny. People love him. He never makes jokes at other people's expense, which seems to be the basis of everyone else's humor; he _never_ swears, and he's so innocent it's gorgeous." I flicked ash over the deckrail. "Next question."

He chuckled languidly, leaned back in the deckchair and put his feet up. "Have you ever met Gavin Kavanagh?"

"No." I followed his gesture. "I always wanted to, though. He was amazing… did you listen to him back then?" Carl nodded. "I thought – I _hoped_ – he'd come back one day, but he never did. The Count's a part of the furniture now."

"What's with you and the Count, too? You guys seem to be… edgy."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. It's called war." He looked at me in surprise. "No, just kidding. It's nothing. We make a big show of it, but it is just show. He's only pretending to be mad because I teased him about his weight a week ago."

"So you guys are good friends?"

"Well," I replied musingly, "I wouldn't take his side in an argument unless it was against someone I really hated, but we're not really enemies. He's just easy to wind up."

Carl tried to look like he understood, but I could tell he didn't. It was a while before he began again. "What's your favorite song?"

"I don't know." Again, he waited for me to expand. "I like soft rock, you know, like Bread and those sorts of artists. Bread's song _Look What You've Done _is awesome. The Stones are good. I love _Wild Horses._ Oh, and the Beatles are genius, of course."

"_Wild Horses_?" I hummed a few bars for him. "Oh. Yeah, that's not bad."

"Good guitar riff."

"Do you play the guitar?" He suddenly sounded really interested. "I tried to learn, but I'm ridiculously bad."

"I taught myself back at Mum's, but I was only borrowing the guitar from a friend of mine, and he wouldn't let me take it on the boat."

Carl smiled wryly. "Friend?"

I returned the smile. "Okay, boyfriend. Well, he was. He wasn't too keen on the idea of me living on a boat full of guys without him, so I broke it off. He wasn't worth more than this."

"Sorry." I shrugged. "I saw you swimming yesterday, do you do that often?"

"All the time," I answered. "I love water. I think I must have been a fish in a previous life, if you believe in that sort of thing." He laughed absently. "Okay, last question."

"Is it, already?" he asked surprisedly.

"I don't know," I replied. "I wasn't counting. Were you counting?"

"No," he admitted, "but I'm sure I've got at least two more."

"All right then, two more."

"Okay – one: have you or would you ever sleep with anyone on the boat?"

I chuckled. "No. Even if I did find any of them remotely attractive, Dad'd send me back to Mum, who would refuse to take me back and I'd actually have to support myself for the first time in my life."

"Even Mark?" he probed.

"Is that your last question?"

"No! It's just… an add-on to the last one! Don't answer it if it's going to count."

I giggled. "Yep. Even Mark. I'd love to know how he does it, but not first-hand. So what's your last question?"

"Oh, God," he said slowly. "I have no idea." His eyes fell to the cigarette in his hand. "Why do _you_ smoke?" he asked.

I gazed at my own, considering. "I started because it felt good. You know, knowing that I was doing something Mum would have killed me for if she could have overpowered me. And now…"

"Habit?"

"No, actually. I think if smoking gives you lung cancer I'd get it anyway here because everyone else does it. You can't be in a room with five smokers and not breathe in enough smoke to equal having your own cigarette, so you might as well save the trouble of being the odd one out."

"I won't quit, then." There was a pensive silence for a few seconds.

"I like you, Carl. You remind me of myself." He snorted. The silence descended again. Then I snapped it like a rubber band. "Right! My turn!" He groaned and rolled over slightly so he faced me. I decided to start with a subtle but revealing question.

"Do you like peas?"

* * *

A**/N: If you're wondering, no, Carl doesn't like peas. I decided. Too mushy. I'm afraid my updates won't always be this fast, but it's the weekend and I had Friday off work too, so I've been bored. And all I've been able to do is write, type, and watch movies, because it's rained. Oh, and I have homework, but that doesn't count for the Master of Procrastination. That's me, by the way.**

**Only one cookie awarded so far, disappointing :( not that I can get the link to paste into the message anyway, I wonder if it's just that my computer hates me. It's old and probably needs a rest. I'm scared, though, that if I give it a holiday it won't want to start work again... what can I say? I can't win.**

**Please review, it would totally make my day.**

**-for you!**


	3. A Word Too Far

**Ok. I am going to purposefully use the Count-without-an-o word twice in this chapter. Sorry about this. You see it coming the first time, so just read that bit with your eyes shut, and the second bit is in Quentin's cabin. So sorry – it's not something I like to say myself on a regular basis, although I noticed I use it a lot more now that I'm writing this… anyway. Enjoy this new chapter – more plot summary than usual, sorry. Next chapter is ninety-nine percent mine (Court's birthday aaand the King is coming! No, not Elvis, you dolts. Iiit's…. Gavin Kavanagh! Yaay!**

**-for you!**

* * *

The Kinks were playing so loud that I didn't even hear the girls arrive. It was Saturday, and I was broadcasting; I always did the Saturday midday slot purely because of Sensational Saturday. Apparently, being both Quentin's daughter and female, I could invite someone onto the boat at any time, but I tried to avoid Saturdays.

I felt sorry for Carl - he had found out about the event only yesterday and had had no time to think up an excuse for not having anyone to bring.

So it was Carl, Simon, John, Felicity and I who sat forlornly in the boiler room in silence. Felicity, as usual, immersed herself in dough. I baked cookies with Carl to show him my mastery in the art of procrastination. Then, a warm choc-chip cookie in my hand, I settled down to the unpleasant task.

"You know," Simon said suddenly, breaking the silence that had grown in the room, this really is a very interesting book." I looked at it: _My Year With The Woodpeckers._

"Is it?" asked Carl languidly.

"Oh, yeah. You see my father used to collect woodpeckers."

"Did he really?"

"Yeah! No," I snorted.

"It sounds enthralling. I envy you." He gave me a scathing look that plainly said he didn't believe me. "No, seriously, I do. I'm writing to my mother."

"Oh," Simon said knowledgeably. "Fair enough."

"Why?" Carl asked.

"Just thanking her for my birthday present that she sent me."

"Oh, when was your birthday?" Something in his camera clicked into place.

"It's not until Tuesday, but she's super-organised." I saw a thoughtful expression cross Carl's angular face.

"So what was it?"

"Better than normal," I rejoined quickly. "I think she finally wants me back." Simon laughed sarcastically.

The Count walked past with twin blondes in cowboy hats. I tried not to laugh. He made it up two steps towards his cabin, then stopped. "Oh, Simon –" he came back down and pulled something from his back jeans pocket – "I might not be up first thing in the morning, so I thought I'd give this to you now." Simon took it warily. "Just something I've been thinking about." He ushered the twins up the stairs again. "Now, do you two mind if I call you by the same name? Twins can be kind of confusing."

"You can call us anything you want," one of them replied. He shot us a look like he thought he was extremely lucky.

"Oh, Jesus… Um… Fred?" I rushed over to Simon and looked at the piece of paper. _Blowjob_.

"Oh, that's original," I shouted after him. "Real mature."

"Hey, you shut up or I'll give you a word that just can't be said on national radio," he replied.

"Fat?"

His only reply was a glimpse of his middle finger as he followed the twins up the stairs. I smiled wryly. "Wait!" I called up after him. He stopped again. "I'll say the word you're thinking of if you'll say 'fuck' for your Very Foolish Thing."

There was a pause. "All right. If you're good." Then he was gone.

"What's this?" Carl asked. "What's with the Count and his little bit of paper?"

"Oh, it's nothing, just a sort of old tradition. The Count gives us a word every day that we have to try and fit into our broadcast without anyone noticing. On Monday it's really easy, like a food or an obscene animal, but by Sunday it's… it's pretty hard."

"So can I see what it is? Can I see?"

"Oh, it's not… it's just… blowjob."

"Wow." Carl took the piece of paper and looked at it, grinning.

"It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it," Simon said resignedly. I chuckled.

"You think you've got it bad, did you hear what I just agreed to do? Fuck, that was stupid." Simon patted me on the back.

"I think I can trump that," John said awkwardly. "The Count said he's going to give me fellatio."

I blinked. Nobody said anything as we all wondered whether we'd heard that right. "What was that now, John?"

"I mean – not that, I mean in a note, you know…"

"Oh," Carl said relievedly. "Right." I was still helpless with giggles. "So what are you going to do?"

"I was thinking of pretending he was the Prime Minister of Italy," he said, convulsing me back into stitches. "Seńor Fel-_eh_-tio?" I fell off the chair next to Simon. "It's not funny, Courtenay!"

Dave walked in. "Ooh," he said, taking in John's pained expression and ignoring me writhing on the floor, "sad room." He mimed crying and sat down opposite Carl. I collected myself enough to sit up again. Dave looked at Carl seriously. "I've come to get you out of your predicament," he said.

Carl looked innocent. "What predicament?"

"The whole 'sad-act, no-girl, unused-pencil-sized-penis' predicament."

I snorted again. "Oh," said Carl awkwardly.

"Walk this way," said Dave, and left the way he had come. I sobered.

"Oh, no, he's not, is he?" I said. But I knew Dave; he almost definitely _was_ going to do what I thought he was doing.

"No," said Simon. "Don' walk that way." Carl looked at me uncertainly. I shrugged.

"You want my opinion? It's not going to work. You might as well try, though, right?"

"No," Simon repeated as Carl stood up. "No, walk – walk woodpecker way." Even Carl snorted.

"Just go," I told him. "It might be fun."

A few minutes later, I subtly walked past Dave's cabin on the way to my own and paused a few seconds. I was just about to assume the 'plan' had worked when I heard a scream. "Aah! No! Wrong room… sorry."

Before I could react, the door in front of me opened and Carl walked out, naked as the day he was born, clutching his genitals. I cracked up laughing and hastily averted my eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing!" I defended. "I'm sorry – I'm not looking – I was just on my way back to my room and I heard you scream…" He stood there for a few seconds while I laughed, then he snorted pathetically too.

"Shut up," he said good-naturedly. "Come on."

* * *

Simon started out his Super Sunday Smashes with a record by Whistling Jack Smith. Carl and I sat outside the recording studio, watching through the glass, listening. "So what word were you going to say tonight?" Carl asked me.

I looked at him. "I'll give you a clue. I don't usually say it, and it starts with 'c'."

"Oh."

Simon started to talk and we shut up pronto. "We're going to start out with a record by Whistling Jack Smith. And for any of you who don't know how to whistle, it's simple: just put your lips together and blow–job done!" He looked at us with his arms raised questioningly. I grinned and waggled my fingers at him in a 'so-so' gesture.

John was up next with the news and weather. I was laughing before he even walked into the studio. John's Sunday broadcasts were always the best; he was so serious and the Count unfailingly gave him words like 'cock' that just didn't fit into the News.

"And the Italian liner, _Michelangelo, _was today launched. Prime Minister Seńor Fellatio was in attendance."

Felicity joined us with popcorn to hear Dave's broadcast around lunchtime. He was busy announcing the winner of a competition they'd had running.

"And it is a great night for everyone on board _Radio Rock_ but especially for our competition winner! Harold, drumroll please!" Harold struck up a vigorous beat on the desk. "And the winner is… Miss Phyllida Nyss!" He made cheering noises. "Hang on – is that Phyllida or Phillipa, Harold?" Harold looked at the piece of paper, which looked suspiciously like it came from the Count's back pocket. "No? All right, well, let's not take any risks, shall we? The lucky winner – who will be joining the other ninety-nine lucky winners on board the Triumph trip to the boat next Saturday – is Miss Penis."

I shook my head sadly. Dave put on a hoarse, Gavin-Kavanagh-type voice. "Radio Rock, 203, enjoy this tune." He put on a record and flicked off his mike. "Penis, done and dusted," he said triumphantly. I kept shaking my head. Pathetic. "Harold, file that under 'Penis.'"

John leaned over me towards the window. "No, Dave, we're not sure about that."

"Why?"

"Pathetic, mate. Penis. You can do better than that." I joined John in giving Dave the thumbs-down.

"Yeah, well, it's penis, isn't it –"

"Yeah, but anyone could just say…" Felicity said doubtfully.

"All right, everyone's a critic," Dave replied huffily.

"Disappointing, Dave," I said. "Disappointing."

The clock wound down slowly. I usually slept in on Sundays because I broadcasted late, but I'd got up at six that morning to watch Simon fit 'blowjob' into his broadcast. By the time Mark stepped into the studio, Carl's eyes were drooping and my stomach hurt from yawning too much.

"Hey, Mark," I said as he entered, "what's your word?"

He stopped. "Fuck," he said absently. I wondered for a second if that was his word, but then he shrugged. I grinned.

I think he played slow music to deliberately put me to sleep. My head almost hit Carl's shoulder several times.

"And now, one of my favorite tracks," he said dreamily, "recorded on November the 8th 1956, from the famous…" he pulled a slip of the Count's paper from his pocket and his mouth twitched as he read it, "…Cocksucker Sessions." I laughed. "What a gathering that must have been."

I started a round of applause. Irritating Mark's slow, dreamy manner may have been, but nothing fazed him. He didn't even break a sweat. The others joined in as he and I switched places. The Count pointed at his eyes, then mine as I sat down in the chair and put on the headphones decorated with peace-sign stickers. I stifled a yawn.

Fuck. How was I going to be able to think straight enough to slip the 'c' word into my show when I could hardly keep my eyes open? Then, as another yawn took violent possession of my mouth, I had an idea. It wasn't brilliant, but I thought it was better than 'Miss Penis'.

I shot the Count a look as I switched on my intro and my mike. "And the time is… um, eleven pm on Sunday night and I'm half-asleep because I got up to listen to Simple Simon's Sunday Smashes! If any of you guys missed it that's too bad because it was a doozy, folks. But now eleven's getting a bit much for me and I'll have to get someone to wake me up at the end of each record, thank God I'm only on for an hour tonight.

"And another thing to thank Him for is that I don't live on the mainland, because then I'd have to drive home and driving while drowsy is _very_ dangerous, guys. _Very_ dangerous. I hear coppers nowadays are actually attempting to make it illegal in this cunt," I said it with finality so that it was noticeable, then faked another huge yawn. "Country. Sorry. Anyway, just in case any of you listeners are nodding off at the wheel, here's something to wake us all up: the new record from Stevie Winwood, _Gimme Some Lovin'!"_

I flicked it on and dared a tentative look through the glass. Felicity did the thumbs up. Harold was grinning all over his childish face. Carl nodded, but with an 'all right' smile on his face. The looks everywhere were generally approving.

The Count looked crestfallen. I pointed my middle and index fingers at him and mimed pulling the trigger of a gun.

Courtenay: 1, Count: 0.

* * *

By Monday, of course, I'd forgotten all about the deal. I was having lunch with Dad in his cabin and discussing how nicely Carl was fitting in when I heard the Count's voice on the radio.

"All right, this was the deal: I asked all of you to demand of me to do a Vey Foolish Thing," the radio gave him a musical stab in the background.

I stood up. "Oh, shit," I said. "I forgot."

Dad looked at me. "What?"

"The Count and I had a deal that if I said… something… last night, he'd say 'fuck' for his Foolish Thing."

There was a pause. Then Dad stood up too. "He can't do that. He can't actually say 'fuck' on national radio."

"Why not? John did it last Sunday. I said 'cunt' yesterday."

"Yes, I heard that," he gave me a severe look, "But you covered it up, albeit badly. He's about to make a grand pomp and ceremony about it." He walked out of the cabin. "I'm sorry, but I can't let him do it."

I followed him hurriedly. "But Dad –" I shut up and listened to the radio.

"You sent in ideas in their millions and one idea has trumped them all. But the real reason I'm doing this today is for the wonderfully charismatic Courtenay, because it is her birthday tomorrow, and I wanted to do something special."

"See, Daddy? He's doing it for my birthday. Please?"

"I'm sorry, darling, but the government will shut us down."

I continued to protest until we reached the studio; the Count had just started the ceremonious process of the 'f' sound at the beginning of the word when Dad opened the door, swiping his hand across his neck.

"Fff… first, though," the Count covered hesitantly, "this very fine piece of music." He slapped the Hollies on and turned to face Quentin expectantly.

"You can't do this."

"Why not?" he asked indignantly. "It's just a word! Courtenay said worse yesterday!"

"Charming thought, but the simple situation is that the authorities already dislike us," said Dad matter-of-factly, "and if you do this then they will hate us and by hook or by crook they will find a way to close us down."

"Uh, they can't close us down," the Count replied. "We're pirates. That's why we're sitting out here in the middle of the freaking ocean!" There were a few cries of 'hear, hear' from outside. I personally enjoyed living in the middle of the ocean, but I kept quiet about that.

"Believe me, they will find a way. Governments loathe anyone being free." I began clasping my hands together in a begging gesture and mouthing the word 'please' behind his back. The others outside were making noises of disgust.

"Okay," the Count said reluctantly, moving back to the desk. I sighed and went to sit with the others. Quentin looked at his mistrustfully. "Okay, I'm thinking about it," he said. Dad folded his arms and leaned patiently against the doorframe. I grabbed a handful of popcorn from Simon.

"He'd better do it," I muttered. "I did not say the 'c' word yesterday for nothing." Simon patted me sympathetically on the back.

"Okay," the Count said again. He turned the Hollies down and his mike up. "My dear comrades," he said officially, "I have some sad news. The powers that be have decreed that the 'f' word is a word too far; but at least, even though our dreams of freedom have died a tragic death, the Hollies are still alive." He turned them up again. I felt like crying; so, the Count had won after all.

"Thank you," Dad said sadly. I noticed that the Count had turned the mike towards Quentin.

"I don't know why you did that," he said. "I was just going to say 'fuck' once. Just one tiny little 'fuck'." I gleefully registered that he was tilting his head towards the mike as he spoke. I whispered as much to Carl and Simon.

"There's no such thing as a 'tiny little fuck'," Dad replied. I was now trying to keep giggles in.

Dave, in the other studio with his headphones on, piped up, "yeah, there is; you should ask Angus's girlfriend." Angus made an indignant noise.

"Be that as it may," Dad maintained, "there's no fucks this morning that won't fuck us up." I snorted once, painfully, as I tried not to give the game away. This was getting good. "One day, in a world of dreams, we'll be able to say 'wank' or 'bollocks' or even 'cock' on the radio," I'd said all of those words seriously before and began to shrink in my chair, "but 'fuck'? Never."

I tapped Harold and nodded. Now, I thought, was the time to end it. He ran around to the door. "Excuse me, your Lordship," he said apologetically.

"Yes, Harold," the Count said innocently. He knew exactly what was going on and for that split second, I loved him for it.

"You've left your mike up in the studio."

"Oh!" he looked at the mike that he'd lifted up with one finger to catch Dad's voice better. "So I have. Uh…" I stood up and clapped enthusiastically while the others laughed. "I, uh… I do apologise to everyone out there for the four… was it five?" I nodded and held up five fingers, "five 'f' words, Quentin." He laughed. "Uh," another spate of chuckles disturbed his speech. "The Hollies will continue undisturbed."

I started to feel slightly bad for Daddy, who looked thoroughly pissed. "Gee, I'm really sorry about that, Quentin. You sounded good, though, you have a lovely voice for radio…" He petered out.

"Fuck off."

I snorted as Dad walked out and the Count turned back to the mike. "That makes it six… and it couldn't have turned out better, in my opinion." He looked at me and saluted me clumsily. I returned the gesture. "Happy birthday, Courtenay."


	4. The King

"_Courtenay! Wake the fuck up!"_

The Count. Did I mention how much I hated him? I'm not overly fond of anyone at – I glanced at the clock – six fifteen in the fucking morning, but the Count just knew how to wind me up that much tighter than everyone else.

It was my birthday. I had a right to sleep in. "COURTENAY! TWENTY-SIX YEAR-OLD WOMEN ARE USUALLY AWAKE BY NOW!" What was he using to make his voice that loud? Did he have a megaphone, or had he lugged the studio mike all the way up to my cabin?

"FUCK OFF!" I yelled back. "Twenty-six year old _birthday _girls usually sleep in."

I could just lie there and put up with his yelling at me, but that would probably annoy me more than it did him. I sat up and pulled on a pair of shorts and a jumper. If they were waking me up this early, it meant they'd actually done something for my birthday. Probably Felicity had cooked breakfast.

Bacon sandwiches. Ha-ha. I tiptoed to the door then flung it open, hoping to catch the Count but missing rather badly. It bounced off the wall and I caught it before it hit me instead. "Morning," I said to the entire crew of DJs that stood outside my door. They _had_ carted the studio mike down to my cabin, and all the other radio equipment. John was broadcasting on one mike, Simon on the other, and they all looked at me expectantly. I took Simon's mike.

"Morning, world," I said lightly. "It's a beautiful day to turn twenty-six, and thanks, everyone who sent me letters and squashed chocolates and things, they were very much appreciated. This is the only broadcasting I'll be doing today, so… thank you all so much, I love you dearly, and Simon, I'd love you to play Bread in celebration…" I smiled at him hopefully. He grinned back and flicked the switch on the record that was already on the turntable. _Truckin' _started playing. I hugged him.

"So now that you're awake," the Count said, grinning smugly and putting his megaphone down carefully. "Can we finally eat the breakfast we've been smelling?"

I beamed. "Breakfast would be… lovely."

Sure enough, the boat smelled of bacon from the bottom of the kitchen stairs. I sniffed gleefully. So did Dave. "Happy birthday, Court," he said, with enough enthusiasm to almost make me suspicious. "I love the way you love the same food I do."

"And _I_ love the way she's still about a third of your size, mate," Angus chipped in.

I loved that too, but I just laughed and boarded the stairs. Felicity gave me a 'happy birthday' and a sumptuous bacon sandwich.

We ate breakfast together for once, and throughout the whole affair I got the feeling that they were holding something back, trying to keep it from me. I put down my knife and fork with finality. "What?"

They all looked up in mock-surprise. "What… what?"

"What… no!" I said loudly, about to get caught up in the game. "You're all acting funny." I looked at the Count, usually the ringleader, and for some reason, he looked at Carl. The boy's eyes widened and he raised his hands innocently.

"What are you looking at _me_ for?" he asked indignantly. I raised an eyebrow. He met my gaze for a few seconds, showing unusual resolve, then relented. "All right," he said finally. "There's a surprise for you in the downstairs cabin."

I was pleasantly surprised. "Really?" He nodded. "What kind of surprise?"

"A nice one, hopefully," Carl replied nonchalantly, picking up his plate and standing up. "Shall we go check it out?"

I followed suit; so did everyone else, which drew my attention again to how many of us there were. I glanced around. "Who's broadcasting?"

"We taped a show last night, I'm just playing it back," Simon offered, shrugging. "I wanted to see this."

I smiled again. It sounded like some surprise. "All right. Let's go."

The downstairs cabin was dark, only half-light daring to show through the high portholes on the far side. I flicked on the electric light, flinching automatically.

I don't know what I was expecting, but the room wasn't full of balloons or chocolate, and nothing exploded with the flick of the lightswitch. A quick glance around showed everything the way I'd left it late last night. A flicker of disappointment shot through me.

Then I saw it, leaning casually against the threadbare sofa, the picture of perfection with the word _Courtenay_ undulating beautifully up its side. "Oh, my God," I breathed, "it's beautiful."

It was a guitar, and it looked like an expensive one, too. "It was Carl's idea," he said modestly. "He came to me and said he'd thought of something for your birthday but he couldn't afford it on his own. So we all chipped in. Chose the model together and picked out the letters to stick on before they shipped it over."

I was almost speechless. They'd never done anything more than a cake and a packet of cigarettes for my birthday before. Now here was this guitar with almost tasteful vinyl letters spelling my name across it. "Thank you," I said, turning to face them all. Dad had turned up, too, and was leaning against the doorframe. I threw myself onto Carl and hugged him. "It's the best present ever."

After everyone had been hugged and wished me a happy birthday in turn, the Count gestured towards it expectantly. "Are you going to play it?"

I picked it up reverently and sat down on the sofa. I plucked out the first line of _Happy Birthday._ "I don't have any music," I mused, experimenting with a chord progression, trying out the sound. It was better quality than the one I borrowed off Tim the possessive jerk.

"Ah, well, that's where I come in," Dad said happily, stepping forwards. "I went through your record collection – sorry – and then found the music for the songs you play most often."

He tossed a wrapped package carelessly onto the sofa next to me. I opened it; sheet music for Bread, the Beatles, Cat Stevens, the Kinks, the Monkees, the Beach Boys… all of my favourite songs spilled out across the old brown couch. I picked up _If You Want to Sing Out_ and struck up a C chord.

It was one of the best birthdays I'd ever had; certainly the best I could have hoped for. Later that afternoon I sat in the cabin playing _Truth or Dare_ with the rest of the DJs when Dad cleared his throat ostentatiously. He stood on the stairs with John at his side. John looked anxious and was holding an ominous-looking chart.

"Courtenay, I have one more surprise for you before the day is out, but I'm afraid it's preceded by some not-so-nice news." I looked up from where Mark was unbuttoning his shirt (Dave had just dared him to remove it) to look Dad in the eyes as he spoke about advertising.

"This chart," John held it up, realised it was upside-down, and turned it right-way-up, "thank you, John – shows what's happened to our advertising revenue in the last few weeks." I winced. The chart showed a steep decline down to almost nothing. Someone behind me said 'ouch' and I heard a few sharp intakes of breath. "So, I've had to stir myself from my traditional… languor,: I flashed him a grin, "and do something to make the station more attractive to new commercial partners.

"Two years ago, something terrible happened, and we lost the greatest DJ Pirate Radio has ever known to America, ambition, and alcoholic poisoning." Dave and Simon made gestures of heartbreak and respect. I shared a glance with Carl. He had to mean Gavin.

"And then something wonderful happened and we got, in return, from America, a man who proved more than capable of filling those enormous shoes." I grinned at the Count; he raised a hand to wave this away.

"I do my humble best."

"And now, my friends, I have good news." I found myself leaning forwards in my seat as Dad shot me a smile. "Very good news."

I took Carl's hand in mine and squeezed it; he squeezed mine back as the same thought crossed both our minds. "Gavin Kavanagh," he said, and I felt Carl shift in his seat beside me, "has decided," he was dragging this out, prolonging my pain, but it could really be only one thing he was going to say next: "to return."

I let out a squeal; it was happening! It was actually happening, just when I'd written it off for good. "Three weeks today," Dad continued as the boat went into a state of general uproar, "and Gavin Kavanagh returns to rock on Radio Rock."

I was so caught up in celebrating as Harold picked me up and piggybacked me round the cabin that I didn't notice the Count, still sitting in his armchair looking thoroughly put out.

Dad bent to leave the room, then stopped and turned back to me. "Just promise me you won't sleep with him," he said softly.

Three weeks flew by quicker than the blink of an eye; I'd offered to move in with Felicity and give Gavin his old room back, so in between moving all my stuff, broadcasting and playing my guitar, I'd had plenty to do. I was just stacking the last of my record collection off Gavin's shelves when Angus popped his ginger head in the doorway.

"Courtenay," he said excitedly, "he's here!"

I almost dropped the Beegees record I was holding. He was finally here, my hero, the one and only Gavin. I picked up the stack. "Thanks, Angus, I'll be there in a minute," I replied, and followed him out of the room.

We stood there in single file all the way along the deck as if we were a line of soldiers waiting to stop an intruder, not welcome one of our own. I was buzzing; I tried not to grab Carl's hand again. I didn't want him to get the wrong idea. I grabbed Felicity's instead.

To the sound of _Jumping Jack Flash_ from the radio, the tip of a hawks-feather protruded over the deckrail, followed by the biggest hat I'd ever seen, and then finally, a blonde, weather-beaten head with a sharp nose and an arrogant pout. Eventually, a sharp purple suit-jacket made it into my line of sight and Gavin Kavanagh stepped onto the deck of _Radio Rock_, kissing two fingertips and waving at the cheering crowd.

He wasn't exactly what I'd expected. I mean, you couldn't listen to his broadcasts and not expect him to be a little bit arrogant, but this was excessive. He had the air of a man who not only expects adulation, but _demands_ it like a petulant child on the rare occasion it wasn't given automatically. I clapped and cheered him anyway, letting go of Felicity's hand, as he shook hands with Dad, hugged Harold, fondled Bob's beard, _kissed_ Dave and was jumped on from behind by Simon.

Then he reached the part of the line where the Count stood, slightly behind everyone else, dragging innocuously on his cigarette. "And you must be the Count," he said expectantly.

The Count stepped forwards as if stepping up to a starting line in a race. "I am he."

A twitch of a smile crossed Gavin's admittedly quite attractive face. "I wonder what that makes me, the King?" I glanced at Carl; he had the same look on his face as I must have had. _Definitely _not what we expected.

He came to stand in front of Felicity and I, hands on his hips. "Rules have changed, then?" he asked, throwing the question over his shoulder at Quentin, who gave me a stern look. I gave it right back; I honestly had no intention of sleeping with Gavin _now._

Well, only a little bit. "Oh, no, I'm a lesbian," Felicity supplied.

That half-smile again. "Always, or… mostly?"

Felicity's smile became fixed and awkward. "Absolutely always."

I saw his hand travel down behind her. "So you say," he whispered. She avoided the obvious butt-squeeze, now looking at me like it was my fault. Then he turned to me. "And you're lesbian too?"

I cringed. "Uh, no, but I'm Quentin's daughter, so I'm equally off-limits."

He raised an eyebrow. "Quentin's daughter?" he looked back at Dad, who gave him a _touch-her-and-you-die _look. "So you're Courtenay." I beamed inwardly that he knew who I was; did that mean he'd listened to my show?

"You prefer hard rock or soft?"

"She's a softie," Dave called back.

He took a step closer to me and I tried not to step away; I wanted Gavin, too, to accept me without Dad's help. "Don't worry," he said in the same sensual, husky whisper he used on Felicity, "I can be hard enough for both of us."

I grimaced. "Thanks, Gavin," I said, unable to keep the sarcasm at bay. "That's comforting." He grinned.

"Now, take me to my microphone," he said, raising his voice theatrically, "I need to broadcast."

We filed inside after him. Dad put a hand on my shoulder. "Remember your promise," he said.

I gave him my best sarcastic glare. "Okay," he admitted. "I agree. But women seem to like it."

I thought about this. "They don't have to live with him," I said finally. "They can just shag him and not worry about tomorrow."

Dad nodded. "Fair enough."

Carl walked past us, an odd smile on his angular face. 'I've just remembered something," he said happily. "It's my birthday in two weeks."


	5. Spike Seattle

Carl's birthday started to loom over me. After the guitar, the increasingly urgent problem of what to get _him_ for his birthday became all-consuming.

Finally I went to see Dad. "Do you think I could invite a friend onto the boat for Carl's birthday?"

He nodded thoughtfully. I flicked through all my girlfriends in my head. Not many of them would be Carl's type, and the ones that were were far too shy to go on a blind date with the kinds of people they knew lived on the boat with me. I didn't want someone who'd just sleep with him and then blow him off. Dave had tried that.

I looked at Dad forlornly. "I don't actually know anyone who'd do something like this that Carl wouldn't freak out at the sight of."

Dad, thinking of the one friend of mine he'd met, Josie, who was completely insane and went around grabbing Felicity's breasts and jumping on everyone else, including him, snorted. "Well then, I believe we have a problem," he said unhelpfully.

"No shit," I replied sarcastically. I thought for a while, then my befuddled brain dredged up a long-dead memory. "Don't I have a cousin on your side?" I asked, frowning. "I vaguely remember a failed tea-party where Mum attacked your sister."

Dad laughed. "I vaguely remember being told about that, too," he said reminiscently. "Yes, Lou _does _have a daughter. Marianne. She'd about his age, too…"

"Can you write to her? Do you think she'll do it?" I asked eagerly.

He smiled his odd smile. "I'm sure she will. I'll write tonight."

* * *

The lone memory I had of Marianne was an attempt from my mother to try and let me get to know Dad's side of the family. She had written to Dad's sister Louise and arranged to get us together for tea.

The only thing I remember was eight-year-old Marianne's face as the conversation turned ugly, like it usually did when Mum started talking about Dad, and she bodily tackled my aunt Louise across the table.

She'd grown up a lot since then, I thought, looking at her across the table in Dad's cabin over red wine and Felicity's pasta, and was now quite pretty. I'd asked her where she bought the dress as soon as she was within earshot, spattered as it was with anchors and set off with her sea-green tights. Carl, to my delight, was obviously smitten, and she seemed quite taken with him as well.

I sat there, eating my pasta, feeling quite pleased with myself, sharing the odd smug glance with Dad over the table.

After the tea-party incident had been related as fully as possible and all our pasta plates had been scraped clean, Dad and I excused ourselves and shut the door carefully behind us.

"Good idea," Dad said quietly.

"I think it's working," I whispered in reply. I glanced through the porthole-shaped window. Marianne was laughing, her fingers flirting with the stem of her wineglass. It looked good.

* * *

Later that night I sat in the downstairs cabin teaching myself the middle eight to _Michelle_ by the Beatles on the guitar when Gavin came in loudly. I glanced up at him, then rolled my eyes and pretended I didn't notice, but started playing the song again from the beginning in the hope he'd hear how good I was getting.

To my delight, he came and sat down next to me; however, this had a negative effect on my fingerpicking. On my third fumbled note, I stilled the strings and looked up at him irritatedly. "What?"

He grinned, nonchalant. "How long have you been playing?"

"I got the guitar for my birthday about six weeks ago, but I played for a year before I came here." He raised an eyebrow. "So on and off for about three years now. Do you play?"

He shook his head. "My job is to play records, not instruments," he said, a wry grin playing with his mouth. He had a really interesting voice, drizzled in husk until every word sounded as though it were whispered between sweaty bedsheets.

"So's mine, but I play both anyway," I replied lightly. He chuckled. "Unless you've got anything worth saying to me, please go away so I can practise," I said offhandedly.

He looked at me for another few seconds as though trying to change my mind, then stood up and headed for the door. "Your little friend Carl's doing well, in case you were interested," he said innocently. "He just came by asking for a condom."

I couldn't help grinning. "Brilliant. Thanks, Gavin."

He grinned back, though his grin was dripping sleaze. "Anytime _you_ need a condom – or someone to use it with."

"Thanks, but I'm sure I can find someone on my own." He shut the door. I launched into _I Love My Dog_, but I was only the second chorus when the door opened again.

It was Carl. I felt a sly smirk creep onto my face. "Hey, Carl. Where's Marianne?"

He flopped down on the other sofa opposite me. "Gone."

I couldn't resist changing my D chord smoothly into an A chord and slowing the strum. He recognised the song and tried a glare, but then gave up and hunched into himself, looking tiny and insecure. "What happened?" I asked.

"We were kissing. Stuff happened and I went to borrow a condom from Gavin, and when I came back she was in bed with Dave." He said it quickly, as though this might make the blow less severe.

I flinched. Harsh. I tried to think of something comforting to say, but came up dry.

"_Come over to the window, my little darling,_

_I'd like to try to read your palm," _I sang instead. He looked as if he might cry and I made as if to stop, but he gestured that I could go on.

"_I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy_

_Before I let you take me home…"_

I changed my chord progression slightly and Harold and John came in; Harold was carrying a cup of tea, John a plate of chocolate biscuits.

"_Now so long, Marianne, _

_It's time we began_

_To laugh… and cry… and cry…_

_And laugh about it all again."_

They put down the cup and plate and pushed them towards Carl. He just looked at them, so I took a biscuit and ate it myself.

"_Your letters, they all say that you're beside me now_

_Then why do I feel alone?_

_I'm standing on a ledge_

_And you're finding spiderweb_

_Is fastening my ankle to a stone…"_

Harold followed my lead and took a biscuit; with a tentative look at Carl, still gazing straight-ahead, he dipped it in the tea before eating it.

"_Now so long, Marianne, _

_It's time we began_

_To laugh… and cry… and cry…_

_And laugh about it all again."_

Before too much of Carl's unresponsiveness, there was one biscuit left and the teacup was only half-full. I had a smile on my face as I kept softly keening the song, but Carl still didn't respond.

"_For now, I need your hidden love_

_I'm cold as a new razor blade_

_You left when I told you I was curious_

_I never said that I was brave…"_

Finally, Carl jerked out of his trance and snatched the last biscuit. Harold grinned and offered him the teacup; a wry smile on his face, he dipped the chocolate in the tea.

"_Now so long, Marianne, _

_It's time we began_

_To laugh… and cry… and cry…_

_And laugh about it all again."_

"Don't worry, Carl," I comforted as I flourished the last chord and stilled my guitar-strings. "There are other girls."

I think I always knew I was wrong, but he didn't seem to. "Thanks, Court." Overcome by happiness in his childish manner, Harold hugged Carl and spilt the still-hot tea all over his trousers.

* * *

Carl's photography was amazing. It always surprised me when I walked into his room to see my own face staring back at me several times over, along with almost everyone else on the boat: Gavin, posed with his outstretched tongue inches from the microphone; Mark, sunbathing in his tight leather pants; Simon pulling a childish face; the Count flipping the bird and turning his face away. I'd never considered myself photogenic, but Carl's photos seemed to show me in a new light, somehow still pretty mid-laugh, mid-exhale with cigarette smoke writhing snakelike around my face. Even John with his odd, square face still managed to look poetic, eerie and haunting somehow until the pictures were almost beautiful.

It gave me chills. "Hey, Court," Carl said, coming into the cabin behind me.

"You're so talented," I told him pettishly. "I'm so jealous." He smiled incredulously, but to my satisfaction he didn't reject the compliment. Last time I complimented him – his handsome face, his skinny but still muscular body, his photography, his innocence – he'd denied it. I can't stand false modesty.

"You're talented too," he said, sitting down on his bed. I snorted. I'd tried to take pictures with his camera, but they'd failed quite spectacularly. "No, seriously! Admittedly, not a photography, but your guitar-playing is getting to be amazing."

I grinned. "Thanks, but I'm no Jimi Hendrix." I sat down beside him. "I tried one of his riffs the other day, but I fucked it up pretty bad."

He laughed. Kevin came in with that odd look on his face when he thinks he's being quite clever. "Hey Carl, Courtenay," he said quickly.

"Congratulations, you've remembered our names," I said drily. Sometimes I had no patience for Kevin.

"What's one plus one equal?" he asked proudly, not registering my sarcasm.

"Oh, and basic arithmetic, too, we _are_ passing in leaps and bounds."

Carl laughed at me, but in a way that made me feel bad for being so scathing to poor Kevin. He couldn't really help it, after all, and sometimes he could be really quite endearing. "One plus one, um, that would be… two?"

"No!" said Kevin ecstatically.

"No?"

Kevin shook his head with the demented glee of a two-year-old. "It's 'window', see?" I laughed at the ancient joke and produced a piece of paper for him to demonstrate. "You see? Because one…" he drew a line on the paper, "plus… one… equals… Window!"

"Very nice, Kev. Who showed you that?"

"The Count."

"I'll be having words with him." I was about to explain how one plus one may _make_ a window when you write them down, but that didn't mean it _equalled_ 'window', when Simon came in behind us.

"Hey, guys," he said, in a voice at least an octave higher than the one he usually used. I looked around in surprise; Simon was bursting with so much excitement he was actually singing. "Carl," he sang in a key even I couldn't reach, "my mate," here he grabbed Carl by the neck in an over-affectionate gesture, "my best mate… I have some news…" I coughed slightly and he seemed to recall a mite of decorum. "I don't know why I'm singing," he apologised. "I just… I can't… my words are just coming out in tune, I'm so happy."

I started to get worried; Simon was swaying his pelvis in a motion that was starting to make me seasick. He looked thoroughly deranged. "If I were the Count right now," he continued, his voice rising again, "I would definitely be using the 'f' word to describe the level of this good news…" his voice went far too high and he struggled to keep himself under control. "Oh… come hold me…" he pulled Carl into a clumsy hug.

"Spit it out, then, Simon," I said finally, my ears still ringing from his last 'news'.

"I'm getting married! To a woman!"

It was like a slap in the face, only pleasant. Simon? _Married?_ "Wow," I said, hugging him. "Congrats!"

He squeezed me so tight I couldn't breathe and then bounced off up the corridor. "I'm going to tell the others!"

* * *

It was the first time I'd ever hated being a girl on the boat, when I stood there in the recording studio with Harold and the Count as they went over the plan for Simon's stag night. I knew what they had in mind, and it sounded like the kind of fun I hadn't had in ages, spending far too much time bar-hopping and getting absolutely smashed.

Harold, even though he wasn't going, seemed almost more excited than the Count. "I have the tapes," he said, pointing to them, "and I'll play them in for each of your shows."

The Count winked at me. "And then we'll return at the cracking crack of dawn, when the real Simon will slip in seamlessly at precisely 5.59am."

Harold nodded excitedly. "Well, that's just groovy."

"You don't _know_ how groovy!" The Count exclaimed. _Sure don't_, I thought sullenly. "We'll have the ultimate stag party, and Quentin will never know." I snorted. I didn't really think Dad would mind anything except his exclusion from the event.

Then the Count darted ninja-style from the room, and Harold and I were alone.

I didn't even think about the radio past then; it was playing in the background, obviously, as always, but I alternated between playing board games with Harold and baking with Felicity all night. It somehow felt wrong to sleep when I knew they were all out there having the time of their lives.

I was with Felicity when something Bob said on the radio caught my attention. I sat up and listened harder. "…and I'm handing over to the man of the hour, Simple Simon himself."

It took me a second to react to the sudden silence on the radio. Then I looked at Felicity and saw on her face the same look that must have been on mine. "Shit!" And I ran.

For the first time in my life, I agreed with Dave's wish that the kitchen and the recording studio were closer. I sprinted down the hallway, feeling like half of Britain was speeding under my feet, hearing nothing but the pounding of my own footsteps.

It wasn't until I reached the door that I realised that the reason I wasn't hearing the radio was no longer because it was silent.

Harold sat in the seat with his feet on the table, just like he'd seen Gavin doing numerous times. "I'm afraid to tell you that my man Simon is not quite feeling up to his game," he said languidly, in a voice that rivalled Gavin's best radio persona and completely belied the skinny, awkward boy sitting in the DJ's chair. "So I hope you're game for a roller-coaster ride that is," he flicked on a circus-style record I didn't recognise, "Spike Seeeeeeeeeeeattle!" He turned off his mike. I stepped into the room properly and he jumped, looking at me guiltily. "Sorry, Courtenay," he said meekly.

"On the contrary," I told him, grinning. "Thanks for saving our skins. In style, I might add."

He smiled sheepishly, then started to get up. "You can have the seat now," he said.

"Oh, no!" He stopped. "You can't give audiences a brilliant introduction to a new DJ, play them one song and then give them back boring old Courtenay! You have to finish what you've started!"

* * *

They found us like that three hours later, Harold still broadcasting in his lazy Spike Seattle voice, me still sitting in the tech box watching him with a helpless little smile on my face. They piled in, wondering who the fuck Spike Seattle was, and then looking like I had when I first saw Harold in the studio, as confident as if he owned the place. Harold, caught up in a stirring sign-off, (_"Have a sweet, sweet day, and never forget that we live in a world where dreams can, and usually do, come true…"_) didn't see them enter until he'd switched off his mike and turned to face me. Once again, he gave a guilty start and jumped off the chair.

"Morning, Harold," Angus said casually.

"Uh, morning, lads," Harold said, his arms going awkwardly to his lower back, his weight bouncing from foot to foot. "Just keeping the seat warm," he explained hurriedly. "Hope I haven't let you down."

"You have not," Angus said authoritatively. "In fact, you've made us proud." He shook Harold's hand. I stood up and started a round of applause, which the others continued eagerly. Simon hugged him and then made bowing gestures as though worshipping him. Harold, his dark cheeks flushed, his skinny chest swollen with their praise, stepped into the tech box with a triumphant wiggle. "I am the King!" he exclaimed happily, and I found myself laughing at how childishly cute he was.

"Sure are." I hugged him and gave him his usual seat back; he continued to pace awkwardly, touching a few things in the box to make sure they hadn't been moved in his absence. He adjusted an imaginary crown on his head. "King Harold," he said, now slightly awkward in his self-delight.

About an hour later, I decided it was time to take Simon to bed. I found Carl, dragging absently on the last of his cigarette in the hallway, looking engaged in thought and thoroughly out of it. Simon was extremely overexcited and kept jumping on people, knocking poor John completely to the ground. "Help," I commanded Carl, and then jumped on Simon, which seemed to subdue him.

"So how'd it go?" I asked Carl as we led Simon back to his cabin.

"Kevin dropped a bombshell," he replied, obviously not focussing on the here and now.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Simon stumbled and we both lunged to catch him. "He thinks… and I actually accept his reasoning for this one…" he trailed off as we managed to dump the inebriate on the bed, then he turned to me, his face dead serious. "He thinks Quentin's my dad."


	6. WAR

**Sorry it's been a while, I've had exams and stuff. And general laziness. Thank you to all who have reviewed, it really does mean a lot.**

**-for you!**

I blinked. "Quentin? As in _my_ dad?"

"Yeah. And it actually made sense." Carl looked at me as though expecting me to yell at him. There _was_ a kind of sinking feeling in my stomach, but I could see the pluses in having Carl as a half-brother.

"The effect of alcohol on Thick Kevin's brain. Hey, Carl, this is great! We can be brother and sister!"

He smiled hollowly. "I just think someone should have told me. It seems… I dunno. I've always wanted a father, especially since I came here and saw the way yours treats you."

"He's yours now, too," I said cheerfully. "And he likes you. Are you going to tell him?"

He hesitated. "I dunno. I mean, how am I supposed to do it? And what if I'm wrong?" He looked on the verge of tears. I put my arm around his shoulder in a clumsy hug.

"I think you should ask your mum. She'd know better than Dad. A letter could be kind of awkward though… I don't know. Think about it later. I'll help." I grinned.

Right on cue, as though stepping in to distract him, Simon leaned forwards and vomited on his feet. I grimaced. "Come on, Carl. Get some rest. We have a wedding to attend this afternoon, and we can't have a puffy, half-conscious best man." I neglected to mention the state of the groom, now apologizing heartily to Carl and trying to wipe the vomit from his shoes. Carl looked down at him and snorted.

"Could be an interesting day."

* * *

The wedding passed without much incident. Elenore was beautiful; much more so than I could ever have imagined. As Dad said during his rather impromptu ceremony, God knew why she was marrying him. It was a beautiful ceremony, too – Simon's amazing patchwork coat made all the difference – but for some reason it made me feel ill.

I noticed once or twice that Carl was looking up at Dad with an odd kind of yearning on his face and I felt almost guilty for the secret hope I had inside myself that Kevin in all his wisdom had made a mistake. I didn't want to share my father. I loved him too much, just the way he was.

I sat inside the kitchen on the floor while Felicity was outside somewhere. Carl came in and sat down next to me. "That was nice," he said as if trying to probe something out of me. I leaned my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. It _was_ nice. But I'd hated it. "Could be us someday," he commented casually.

I sat up and looked at him. "_What?_" Second bombshell of the day. If he dropped another one, I might explode from shock.

He realized what he'd said and suddenly looked terrified. "Oh God! No – I didn't mean – I meant we'll get married to _other people_ one day. Not each other!"

I laughed. "Okay, sure." I sighed. "Well, you might." I got up and started rooting through the fridge; I found some celery and, with a tentative look around for Felicity, cut off a stick.

"You don't think you'll ever get married?" he asked. "What's with the celery?"

"It's Felicity's. She's a little bit possessive."

"Possessive? Felicity?"

"Stranger things have happened." I sat back down. "No, I don't see myself marrying." He stood up as if to get himself some celery; I snapped mine in half. "Here, have this," I told him quickly. "She notices if you take more than one." He chuckled and took it.

"You don't 'dig the dream', then?" he asked, slumping back down beside me.

"No, I 'dig the dream'," I quoted, munching loudly. "It's a good dream. But… what if that's all it is? I mean…" I trailed off and waved my celery vaguely. "How do you know they're the one?"

"Don't they say you just know?"

"But what if you're wrong?" I looked over at him, sad again. "I just don't think I could commit to something like that for the rest of my life, just going by instinct."

He was nodding. "I see where you're coming from. But… look at Simon and Elenore! They've only known each other for two weeks, and they know."

"Maybe they'll be lucky."

I was watching the door with half an eye; now Felicity entered in her usual meek manner. I hurriedly shoved the last of my celery in my cheeks like a chipmunk. Carl, after a quick glance at me, did the same. Felicity turned around to see both of us munching heartily. "What are you two eating?" she asked, slightly suspiciously.

"Bread."

She gave me a hard look. "Crunchy bread," she commented lightly, and turned away.

"Toast," Carl put in innocently, but a piece of half-chewed celery spat out of his mouth and landed on the tiled floor.

"Celery," she corrected.

"All right," Felicity started to swell alarmingly like some colourful Ratched; Carl and I cringed.

Dave walked in. Felicity seemed to calm down. "So what's happening in here?" he asked.

"These two are eating my celery," she said. Dave made a noise of disgust.

"Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "Courtenay's got a thing about taking what doesn't belong to her."

I looked up, shocked but with a sneaky feeling I knew what he was talking about. "I've got a _what?_"

"You know what I mean, Court. I'm missing ten pounds."

"That's a shame," I quipped, suppressing a smirk. "But it sounds as though you're insinuating _I_ stole your ten pounds."

"You did," he accused, quite correctly, as it happened. "You stole it and gave it to Carl for that egg thing."

Good with his facts, this boy. "I paid Carl for that out of my own pocket, didn't I, Carl?"

He nodded solemnly. He couldn't deny it; he'd even seen me remove the tenner from my pocket. "You see? I didn't take your ten quid. If you have to suspect someone because of the egg thing it should be Carl – no offence," I added quickly to the boy. "I wouldn't profit at all from the removal of your money. And Carl has more reasons to want revenge from you than the eggs," I reminded. Cheap shot, maybe, but he needed to be reminded that I wasn't the only thief on the boat, or by any means the worst.

"I know it was you," he insisted, "and if you don't admit it then Doctor Dave is going to write you a prescription for a self-kicking arse!" He made threatening kung-fu gestures.

I snorted. "Only because you can't come over here and kick my arse yourself," I rebounded in an oh-no-you-didn't-eliciting tone. I heard a collective snigger and looked around to find that everyone on the boat except for Simon, Elenore and Mark were now in the room and laughing at the extremely angry expression on Dave's face. _They_ all knew I was lying. Even Dave knew it.

"Come on, Court. It wasn't Carl. No-one else had a reason to take it. You stole it, just admit it."

I sighed defeatedly. "Dave, when I broke that egg I wasn't thinking clearly enough to plan, _oh, I'll say I'll pay and then go steal a tenner out of Dave's underwear drawer."_

Dave pounced. "I never said it was stolen from my underwear drawer," he said triumphantly.

I could have bluffed my way out of it, but I decided to go for comic. I grinned guiltily. "Oops." The others laughed.

"I want that ten quid back, you know," he said in a hurt voice.

I shrugged. "I stole your tenner, you stole my best friend's girlfriend, we're square."

* * *

I woke up earlier than normal the following morning; early enough to be fiddling with my guitar by the kitchen when Carl came in for a cup of tea. "Morning."

He jumped. The sofa I was sitting on was hidden from him by a low bench. "Oh my God – where are you?" I stood up. "I couldn't see you there. You're up earlier than usual."

With a guilty glance at the clock – it was nine thirty – I waved him away. "I was hoping to see Simon."

Carl's face fell. "Oh."

"What?"

"Well – I saw him earlier." He looked awkward. My heart sprinted down to my abdomen. "He said it… well, it could have gone better. I'm not saying they're not still happy, don't look like that," he said quickly to my crestfallen expression. "It just wasn't the amazing night he'd expected."

I relaxed slightly. Then Simon came in, and my heart dropped back to my thighs and took my stomach with it. He was deathly pale and looked like he was about to go into shock. "Simon?" He didn't respond. "Simon, what's happened?" I asked, putting down the guitar and scrambling around the bench to stand in front of him.

After about five minutes' struggle, he managed one word. "Elenore."

"Oh, Lord." I grabbed his hand as he swayed precariously. "Sit down, come on…" the two of us led him to my recently-vacated sofa and sat him down. "Elenore what?"

After another huge struggle, he repeated, "Elenore…" and stopped again. Then he told us.

I almost said, 'you're kidding', but then I stopped myself. Simon was too sweet for insensitive comments like that. "Oh, Simon," Carl sighed, giving the DJ a rough man-hug, "I'm so sorry."

'Sorry' didn't really do it for me. I finally understood the term 'blind rage'. I stood up unsteadily and Simon looked up at me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to stab Gavin with a Stanley knife and pitch his body into the North Sea," I affirmed, as calmly as I could.

Carl stood up. "Me too."

"You're too young," I dismissed, and left.

I tried not to run, but it was no good; I was so angry I wanted Gavin's enormous head under my fingertips _now_, and without fully knowing it I was sprinting up the steps. I was fuming so hard that I actually thought I _might _murder him, before I slammed into his door without bothering with the handle, leaving it to fly wildly between me and the wall.

What I saw inside the room left me temporarily speechless. Elenore straddled Gavin in her turquoise negligée, her panties discarded on the floor. They stopped in shock as I came in, not even attempting to hide what they'd been doing. _"Out!_" I shouted at her.

She blinked huge eyes at me. "What?"

"OUT! GET _OUT!_" She yelped and darted out of the room. Gavin scrambled for a blanket to cover his cock; I approached him, my fists clenched so hard I was almost drawing blood, hardly noticing that I was looking at Gavin Kavanagh stark-bollock naked.

"How…" I yelled incoherently a few times. "How _could_ you!"

"What?" He tried gingerly, now pulling his dark jeans back on.

"WHAT?" I screamed, "_WHAT?_ That was your _friend's wife!_ Of – what's it been – twelve hours? Thirteen? He loved you! _Both_ of you! And… and you…" I couldn't even get it out, what he'd done. Words couldn't describe it. Simon, sweet, naïve Simon, betrayed in the only thing he'd ever thought he'd finally got lucky in, by the _great_ Gavin. Great, my arse.

"Oh, come on," he defended. "It wasn't my fault."

I screamed, trying and failing to hold onto my last shred of outward control, and flew at him, punching and kicking every inch of him I could reach, mad with the injustice of it, until I felt Dad's hands on me, pulling me away from him, and soon I was wrapped in Dave's meaty arms, still trying to hit the man who'd destroyed my only proof that love did exist.

* * *

A**/N: Once again, sorry for the delay. Exams are over now so I'd say updates will speed up but I'm working full time and I've discovered Black Books, so they might not. Bear with me. At least I have actually written the next few chapters already. We are now getting into the climax of the story, sadly, but that means it will become less plot from the actual film and from now on almost completely either mine or from the deleted scene "Radio Sunshine". **

** I'll keep typing now, I'm sure you'd rather I typed more story than more author's note. Can I urge you once again to review, it really does make my day.**

** -for you!**


	7. Actual Pirates

**Ahaa! Update number two for today!**

It was three days before they let Gavin into my line of sight again. Carl and Simon had been my constant companions, Carl disapproving of my fit but slightly impressed, too, and Simon just grateful I cared.

I tried really hard to explain what I did; to Dad, to Carl, to myself. Simon was my best friend before Carl came along, and he was such a sweet soul, it was hard to imagine him doing anyone any wrong. I was already so upset that Gavin wasn't the amazing guy I'd dreamt of that the final bastardly act had tipped me over the edge and it wasn't just my reaction to that one thing coming out but three months of resentment at the way he acted, the way he treated me and even Felicity as scraps of meat, as if it was only a matter of time before we turned in his favour and fell madly in love with him.

And then there was the fact that I really, really wanted to believe in love. I almost had, four days ago when I was sitting on the deck of the boat playing the Turtles' _Elenore_ to the happy couple. Then Gavin-fucking-Kavanagh shattered his second one of my dreams in the few short months he'd been on board.

I'd heard about the Count's adverse reaction to the news. I was surprised at first, but then I thought that he, too, was reacting to a build-up of resentment at being second-best to Gavin. Carl told me he'd declared war – with a capital W-A-R – but the next I'd heard of it came, surprisingly, from the Count's own lips.

I was in the cabin I shared with Felicity, sulking, when he came in. "Hey, Court."

I looked up. "Hey."

"Um… Quentin says you can come watch Gavin and I play chicken."

I grinned at him. "Thanks." We walked up toward the main deck in the most civil silence we'd ever shared. "It seems we are united against a common enemy," I commented finally.

"I assure you it's only temporary," he warned, but I could tell he was joking.

I sighed. "The world today," I mused. "Next thing you know, we won't be the biggest fish in the sea anymore." We both laughed; ironic, really. We weren't to know.

* * *

"So how _did_ you end up here?"

We were sitting on the floor in the boiler room, me playing a lively blues rhythm on my guitar while Carl listened and talked to me. The Count was smoking peacefully at the bar; Mark & Dave were playing fooseball. Gavin was sitting in a chair like a fat, satisfied toad and Simon, Angus and John were chatting idly in a corner. The others, too, were scattered around the room. It was a Friday evening and we were all lazy and contented.

"Mum kicked me out of the house. I think she thought it was a big hit, a cut below the belt. I don't think she ever thought I'd actually go."

"No, mine either," he chuckled. "Was she okay with it, though? She sounds like a bit of a control freak, your mum."

"Yep. Sometimes I wonder why Dad shagged her. They're so different."

Carl frowned at the sentiment. "So what did she say whe you told her you were actually moving out?"

I grinned, changing my hold on the guitar. "Oh, you know…" I pulled a G-C strum and a couple of arpeggio notes.

_It's not time to make a change,  
Just relax, take it easy,  
You're still young, that's your fault,  
There's so much you have to know…"_

Carl laughed. _"Find a girl, settle down,  
If you want, you can marry,  
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy," _he joined in sagely. We set ourselves up for the epic song, both grinning like idiots.

"_I was once like you are now  
And I know that it's not easy  
To be calm when you've found something going on  
But take your time, think a lot  
Think of everything you've got  
For you will still be here tomorrow  
But your dreams may not…"_

I changed key, and was about to break out into the 'son' part when Dad's whistle blew. A collective groan went up. "All right," Dad said loudly, claiming everyone's attention, "I have some rather… strange news."

I exchanged a glance with Carl as Dad said, "Our listening numbers –"

There was a cheer. "Let's hear it," Dave said enthusiastically.

"Ah, have gone down," Dad finished.

Shock horror. "What?"

The Count shifted in his seat. "Not mine," he said complacently.

"Everyone's," Dad contradicted. "Except, of course, Gavin's." Gavin, looking straight at me, did his signature two fingers to his lips. I stuck out my tongue childishly. "And," Dad continued, "Simon's Super Sunday Smash Show."

I gave a little cheer. "But that's just because _Radio Sunshine_," he made a face, "doesn't have a chart show."

I opened my mouth, but the Count beat me to it. "Radio what-the-fuck?"

Gavin sighed. "Doesn't it get depressing when the 'f' word has to be in every single sentence?" he said to Carl, who ignored him.

"Right here," the Count reminded him.

He pretended to jump in fright. "Oh, fuck, sorry." There were a couple of titters from the others.

"Fuck off, Gavin," I said loudly. Harold laughed.

Dad cleared his throat. "Anyway. Ten days ago, a new station opened up in the North Sea. It is called," he grimaced, "Radio Sunshine, and it broadcasts eighteen hours a day." He paused while we all took this in.

"Oh, and by the way," he added, a final blow designed to leave us prone on the floor. "Radio Sunshine's motto is _who needs the Beatles when you've got Herman's Hermits?"_

I looked at the Count; he was looking like all his worst nightmares had come true. I grinned. This could be interesting.

* * *

We were making our way down to the Count's cabin later that night when Gavin fell into step beside us. I ignored him for at least a minute before he sighed.

"Oh, come on, Courtenay," he said, using my name for the first time since I'd met him, "I didn't hurt _you_."

I stopped walking and looked at him. "Simon's my best friend. It hurt me that you could hurt him like that. How could you even _think_ that that was a good idea?"

"I didn't," he replied easily. "I told her it wasn't on, that she shouldn't do it. I didn't ask for this to happen; in fact, I asked for it not to, and I don't see why I'm being blamed for it."

"I walked in on the two of you in bed, that doesn't seem like blameless to me!" I rebutted, my voice rising again.

"Well, I…" he paused, then flapped his hands idly. "You're going to blame me whatever I say."

He learned fast. I shrugged. "Because you're not saying anything that's going to change my mind. And besides…" I sighed and started walking again. "It's not just that. I don't like you because you're not what I expected you to be."

He chuckled. "What did you expect?"

"I dunno. I thought you'd be… like the others, only sexy. Like you'd treat me like they all do."

He pouted. "But admit it," he said in a low, throaty voice. "You weren't wrong about the sexy part."

I slapped him, and Carl and I walked faster to leave him behind, Carl chortling idly, Gavin looking thoroughly un-sexy.

* * *

We gathered in the Count's cabin under cover of darkness to find that the rest of them were there already. "Right," I said as we arrived. "Radio Sunshine."

The Count nodded ominously. "We used to have a motto in my college frathouse," he began. "Don't get mad, get even."

I nodded and took a bite of the carrot Simon was holding. He yelped and jerked it away from me. "_Our_ motto," he said, eyeing me warily, "was –" he spouted something that sounded like Spanish.

"And what did that mean?" the Count asked, puzzled.

"I don't know. I wish I did."

"Right," Angus interjected. "Our motto was _never wear purple with beige._"

"Oh – moving on!" the Count recalled, obviously marvelling at how fast the conversation had slipped from his hands. "Now, I believe in that old motto," he said in a business-like way. "And I also believe that some of us have gone and forgotten who we are. Now what are we?"

"We're pirates," I said calmly, accidentally spitting out a bit of carrot. That was undignified. "Sorry."

"Exactly, we're pirates! And what do pirates do?"

"Play records!" Kevin yelled excitedly. The Count looked nonplussed.

"No, uh… actual pirates."

Kevin hesitated. "Play actual… records?"

"No! Fuck me!" the Count exclaimed, rubbing his face in odd ways. I supressed a bout of giggles.

"It's all right, I've got it," Dave said cockily, throwing out his chest to alarming effect. "I think real pirates roam the high seas in search of loot and treasure."

"Yeah!" the Count yelled rousingly, making Carl and I whoop and clap. "In other words," he continued, still practically shouting. "They kick the fucking shit out of anyone in the fucking ocean who gets in their fucking way." I whooped again. The Count grinned at me, taking advantage of his dramatic lead to give a gesture like a herald in a medieval battle. "And what's Radio Sunshine doing?"

"Playing records!" Kevin burst out, mimicking the Count's triumphant tone.

"Fuck," the Count said, looking at Kevin like he'd never realised how thick he was. I collapsed laughing. Carl looked like he was trying not to join in.

"No," Simon corrected, "it's getting in our…" he broke off, hesitant as always to use the 'f' word. "Flipping way."

"Yeah," the Count said in relief. "So what are we going to do?"

"We," Simon finished dramatically, "are going to kick the flip out of it!"

"Yeah! All right, let's go!" the Count started, but I grabbed his coat and held him back.

"Tomorrow," I said. "If we go tonight we won't have much time before dawn. We should prepare tomorrow and go tomorrow night."

The Count, caught up in the heat of his anger at Herman's Hermits, hesitated. "Okay. So what are we going to do tomorrow so Quentin doesn't notice?"

I smiled thoughtfully. "Weren't you guys going to start an exercise regime?"

* * *

A/N: **Don't expect another today. Sorry. I have also nearly finished the whole story! Muahaha! Review please!**

** -for you.**


	8. Let the Evilness Begin

**A/N: Ahahaha! Update #3 this week! 'm on a roll! Except I haven't quite finished the next one yet. Thank you to all my loyal reviewers! Oh, and _ChilliPowder_. Actually the only Gavin/Courtenay I was going to end up with was platonic, though I have of course been hinting at it I think it would be... I dunno... wrong for them to actually end up together. Courtenay/Count... I was going somewhere with both pairings, but it wasn't there. For either. I'm tying it all up in the epilogue. For now, enjoy the mischief and mayhem in this chapter!**

****

**-for you!**

* * *

The next day dawned bright and cloudless, and the early morning saw all of us standing, facing the Count, in the boiler room. Felicity and I were dressed for exercise, in shorts and singlets and Angus was minus the singlet, but nobody else seemed to have made an effort; Carl was even still smoking. Gavin sat in his usual leather and sunglasses, lounging in an armchair directly behind me.

"If I fart, you're screwed," I told him. He chuckled again, but he seemed to have made it his duty to stay as close to me as possible now he knew how much and why I hated him, and I had to admit it was working; his antics that I once found sickening now made me struggle to hide a smile.

"Right," the Count began to get everyone's attention. "Today we begin our new exercise regime. We have let ourselves go…" he looked in the mirror next to him and patted his stomach ruefully. "Especially me. But if we do this stuff every day, then in a month we'll all look like…" he bent down, swore as his expansive belly got in the way, and picked up a poster. "Steve McQeen! Now how fucking sexy is that?"

"That's so sexy," Simon agreed. I, personally, didn't particularly want to look like Steve McQueen, but I understood the appeal.

"Right. Oh, God…" the Count cursed again as he put the poster down. He paused for a second and looked at me uncertainly. I giggled and made press-up motions. "Press ups!" he said, and we all bent to the ground. More swearing came from the Count's direction.

"Okay," he said. "Now when I say go, we'll… well, we'll start." Down in the press-up position, I suddenly felt a weight on my back as Gavin placed his Cuban heels in the small of my back like I was some sort of coffee table. "Go," the Count said finally.

I was a reasonably fit person, but with Gavin pushing down as hard as he could on my back until I was lifting at least twice my own weight, even I was struggling. "Fuck off, Gavin!" I said exasperatedly. "Get our fucking feet off me!"

He just laughed as we struggled through the Count's excruciatingly slow count of 'One…' I tried a bucking motion with my back, but that just caused his heels to crash into my back harder. 'Two…' I bent and lifted again.

"That's perfect." I collapsed. "That's it for today, guys." Gavin got up and waltzed nonchalantly from the room. The others started picking themselves up. "Well done! I'll see you all same time tomorrow. I know this is going to be tough, but it's gunna be worth it." I chuckled. "Seeing some improvement already, Dave," he congratulated, hugging the huge DJ. Carl loped over to me, looking exhausted.

"Two press-ups, Carl. Really?" He grimaced.

"Hey, you look as bad as I am."

"I had Gavin-fucking-Kavanagh's feet on me until I was practically lifting him, too!" I retaliated, looking the way he'd gone. "One day, I _will_ murder him."

"Yeah," Carl said easily, "or marry him."

* * *

Night fell too slowly, dark shreds of clouds strangling the sun's descent until we were all sitting in agony waiting for it. Finally the Count, dressed all in black with a balaclava stretched interestingly over his head, descended the stairs.

"Do we have our weapons?" he asked. We held up the things we'd gathered; knives, glue, scissors, record labels, and a pre-recorded cassette tape.

Simon held up a permanent-looking marker doubtfully. "Are you sure this pen comes off, Kevin?"

"Definitely." Simon shrugged and smeared it over his face. I laughed and turned it down.

"Right. Let's go." We all jumped up and rushed down the stairs, bubbling excitedly to each other.

"Shit!" Dave whispered suddenly. "Quentin! Quentin's coming!"

We swore and hurriedly backtracked, squeezing ourselves through the nearest door. As I tried to close it, it got stuck on Dave's stomach; I swore again and shoved as hard as I could. "Come on, Dave, suck it in, man!" the door clicked shut just in time; I heard Dad's heeled shoes tap past, holding my breath, though more out of lack of space than fear of discovery. "Okay," I breathed finally. "Coast's clear. Let's go."

We all squeezed back out of the room and continued up the stairs. I fell back to wait for Carl. As he left the room, he turned back. "Sorry, Felicity," he said.

I turned to look inside the tiny room; Felicity sat on the loo, her hair rumpled. "No, no," she said meekly. "I enjoyed the company."

We boarded the longboat and I grabbed an oar. I thought we'd be rowing for ages, but it had been barely ten minutes before the Count broke the relative silence. "Oh my God," he whispered, "there she is." He pointed a torch in the direction we were rowing. I glanced there to see a severely smaller boat than ours. It looked almost pathetic, sitting there all by itself.

"This," said Gavin in his usual husky whisper, "is going to be so much fun!" he said it with a little shiver on the 's' of 'so', so that it sounded like he'd just done something involuntary in his trousers.

"Orgasmic, isn't it, Gavin," I said sarcastically, but I felt it too. It was exciting to finally assume the name of 'pirate' we'd been given for so long. I could hardly sit still.

They had a 'sentry' strutting around the boat; Dave threw a net over him and Gavin gave him a solid wallop over the head with an oar.

Then we found the recording studio. The Count switched the lights on, pulled his balaclava down over his head and looked around. A cruel smile twitched over his face.

"Let the evilness begin."

I cackled. Angus looked at me and nodded; he threw me a pot of glue and we headed towards the shelves of records. I pulled a handful from the shelf; Angus did the same beside me. I pulled from my pocket a handful of labels; Herman's Hermits, the latest songs from artists like the Beatles, the Move, the Monkees. Songs they were likely to play tomorrow. We gently peeled off the original stickers and glued on the new ones instead. Then, still cackling, I stacked them beside the record player in a neat playlist.

I looked around. Dave extracted with difficulty the cassette from his pocket. I grabbed the advertisement tapes and glued them in their original positions. Dave tossed his one neatly beside them.

Another look around showed all the DJs heavily involved in their mischief; Gavin was picking his nose beside me and wiping it on the microphone, the Count, Angus and Carl were sitting down with a pile of records and gouging deep scratches in them, Kevin was switching jingle tapes around in their stands with a look of intense concentration on his face.

I noticed Simon standing in the middle of the room as though unsure what havoc to wreak next; I pulled a funnel out of my jacket pocket. "Hey, Simon," I whispered. "Here."

He gazed at it blankly. "What do I do with it?

I shot him an evil grin and pointed at the teakettle. He returned it and headed off in that direction. Suddenly Gavin was behind me. "You know what this boat needs?" he whispered sensually in my ear.

"More of you? That'd be torture."

He ignored me. "A dead fish lying around somewhere."

I thought about this. "I think I saw some dead fish topside. I think this boat doubles as a trawler sometimes." We shared our first grin and dashed out of the door and up the stairs.

Gavin tripped and fell up the stairs; I laughed and kept running, leaving him behind. He laughed and ran faster until he overtook me, slapping my arse as he went.

I stopped. "Gavin," I said seriously. He turned around, his grin fading. "Not with the arse-touching, please." He kept walking backwards, twitching open a door as he went until we were on the main deck with the stars twinkling merrily above us.

"Sorry," he said, and he actually sounded it. "I just think your arse is so sexy."

I raised an eyebrow in disgust. "Give it up, Gavin," I said easily. "Even _if_ I wanted to, I promised Dad I wouldn't sleep with you."

He grinned again. "He doesn't have to know."

"_If _I wanted to," I repeated pointedly. "I don't. I hate the way you act like it's a foregone conclusion. It's such a turn-off, to say the least."

He sighed. "Sorry," he said again. He looked around briskly. "So – fish?"

"Over here, I think," I said, glad that his unnervingly sincere apologies were over. I showed him the huge crates I'd seen covered in black tarpaulin; he took hold of the first one and pulled.

Fish. Brilliant. They were fat and glistening and already giving off that pungent fishy smell. I giggled. Gavin chuckled. I looked at him and he looked at me and the glee from the raid was still reflected in his eyes. He may be an arse, I thought suddenly, but he was a well-meaning arse. And we believed in the same things, and went about getting them in largely the same way. I didn't have to love him, but suddenly the idea that I'd have to live with him wasn't so bad.

In the middle of our sappy little moment of non-verbal reconciliation, the door to the foredeck opened.

"What are you two doing out here?" I jumped a mile in the air, thinking that someone from Radio Sunshine had caught us, before my still-sleepy brain processed the voice and realised it was Carl's.

I calmed down. "We were finding fish." It sounded _really_ lame out loud, I realised. I proceeded to explain the method behind the madness to him.

"Oh," he said. He looked at Gavin, now holding the fish in his hand. "Right. Well, shall we head back down, then?"

Gavin made to follow him, but I hesitated and, on a whim, pulled back the cover on the second crate. "Oh, score," I said triumphantly. "Gavin? Hang on a sec."

The second crate was full of what looked like miniature eels, long, thin and slimy. Gavin saw them and gave another low chuckle. He dropped the fish he was holding and picked up one of them. Carl and I pulled the tarpaulin back on; I grabbed another eel just in case before we went back to the studio.

Downstairs, the pile of scratched records had swollen incredibly and the stacks still on the shelves were dwindling. Gavin brought the eel up to his face and kissed it before slipping it between the desk and the record player where they couldn't find it. I shook my head at him.

"Amateur." I placed mine carefully on a shelf under the desk beside a pair of headphones, where some unsuspecting DJ would reach without looking and meet its slimy body.

He laughed. I sat down on the floor between Simon and Angus, picked up a record and a knife and started scratching.

* * *

The first rays of dawn were all that saved us from discovery. With _Radio Sunshine's _entire record collection maimed, we headed up the stairs again. "Right," said the Count, "are we all here?"

We looked around for each other. "We're missing Mark," Simon noticed.

"Oh, Jesus. Dawn's coming, we've got to get back."

We waited for a few seconds, then Midnight Mark, the sexiest man on the planet, stumbled up a completely different set of steps than the ones we'd been watching for him. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked him.

"With a girl," he replied calmly. The others whooped. I was left to contemplate how he managed it.

Back on the longboat, we all cheered and high-fived each other triumphantly. "Great work, guys," the Count congratulated. "I'd like to see them messing with our listening numbers after _that._"

* * *

A/N: **Ok. So next chapter may be a while, and after that sappy Court/Gavin moment I'm having more and more trouble convincing even myself that they're not meant to be together, especially since there's another one next chapter. I might throw in a kiss somewhere. Review if you are pro/anti kiss. (I'm watching _All About Steve, _hence the pro/anti business). Anyway. Review.**

**-for you.**


	9. Smoke Rings And Last Night

**A/N: Haven't had time to proof-read yet, sorry. I'll do it later.**

"Fuck."

Sitting around the breakfast table with sheepish looks on their raccoon-like faces were most of the DJs. Kevin's 'fail-safe' pen had failed to come off. Carl nodded in response to my expletive. I grinned. "When Dad sees you guys…"

"Yup." The Count looked thoroughly unperturbed at the news that his death had been sealed by a few people's reluctance to accept that Kevin was genuinely, irretrievably _thick_.

I grabbed a bowl and sat down next to Carl. "How hard did you scrub it?" I asked, poking his face gingerly. He flinched.

"Hard," he said in a hurt voice. I stifled a giggle.

"Oh, you guys are screwed."

"It was worth it, though," Simon affirmed. The others nodded emphatically. "And we're not going to let you get off scott-free, Court, you know that." I grinned as he raised his voice so everyone could hear. "All right, guys? If Quentin asks, it was Courtenay's idea."

"What was Courtenay's idea?" We al jumped in unison at the sound of Dad's voice. Angus picked up a cereal box and covered his face. Carl tried to hide his in his breakfast bowl, with little success owing to the amount of milk still left in the bowl. Kevin, bless his soul, sat still with a surprised look on his face, the wide rings of black around his eyes making him look even more owlish than usual.

"Oh," Dad said in amused surprise. Then he shrugged it off. "You should have a listen to Radio Sunshine," he said in a mock-worried tone. "I'm afraid they've gone rather… off the ball."

We all laughed, even Dad. "Turn it on," the Count said eagerly. Dad complied, and sat down at the head of the table.

"I'm sorry about this, folks," the radio burbled happily, "but we seem to be having a few technical tantrums this merry morrow." I made a face at Simon. "But let's move on, let's groove on – here's the new sensational sound from the Move! This is _Night of Fear_."

I snorted. I'd replaced that with a Christmas carol myself.

"And… no, it's not!" Simon exclaimed triumphantly as someone's grainy recording of _Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree_ echoed around the cabin. "I think it's Brenda Lee." Angus and I mimed stashing guns back in our pockets.

A new voice, deeper but just as mindlessly cheerful, came on as the record cut off sharply. "Oh-kay!" it laughed. "Everything is _copa sette – _because Big Dave is here to the rock and roll rescue!"

Dave blew a raspberry at it. "And let's listen to the palatable platter known as Gary Puckett while Bernard tries to figure out where he left his brain this morning!" There was a smattering of nervous, over-enthusiastic laughter. "And naughty Gary," the voice continued, "is very interested in a very young girl."

I laughed again. I'd seen that record on top of a pile with _Gavin Kavanagh _carved artfully into it. Sure enough, the record stuck halfway through the very first note. Gavin and I high-fived, awkwardly avoiding each other's eyes.

"Ohoho," Big Dave's voice came back on. "Gary seems to be stuck in that relationship, huh…"

"Not as stuck as you're going to be," the Count muttered.

"But you know who's not stuck in anything," the voice returned, "because they have the best product in the entire world…"

I glanced at Dad. This was going better than any of us could have hoped. Dave chuckled at the sound of his own voice on the radio. "Now _this_ is what I call 'Big Dave'," I said happily.

"Tense? Need to relax? No better way to do so than _Night_ cigarettes. They'll give you cancer, and then you can sleep forever… oh… because you'll be dead."

The Count slapped Dave on the back and took another drag on his own ever-present fag. I couldn't help but giggle at the irony.

Someone on the other side switched off the ad and broke the silence. I sat up eagerly; Brainless Bernard was back. "Okay! I think it's time we went to the weather! Katie, how's the weather looking?"

"Oh!" Gavin called silence over the triumphant chatter that had broken out over the advert. "The weather!"

We were silent, waiting for Katie, everyone's eyes flicking between Dad and Mark. After the tuneless introductory jingle, (_"the sun always shines on Radio Sunshine!"_) there was a pause. _Radio Rock_ held its breath.

"Well the weather is…" the airy, ditzy-blonde voice paused again, then broke into a ridiculous giggle. "Well, it's great. And last night…" the beginnings of a snigger started up in Angus' throat. "Was…" we all looked at Mark with some sort of crude expectancy.

"Heaven."

Much back-slapping and high-fiving ensued. I tell you, a response like that almost made me want to sleep with him, just to see what all the fuss was about. "How do you do that, Mark?" Felicity asked.

Mark either didn't hear it over the congratulations, or just decided not to reply.

"Right," Dad said in a businesslike manner, making us all jump and sober up quickly: now we were in for it, surely. "With Radio Sunshine taken care of –"

"You say that like it was your idea," I butted in, surprised.

Dad smiled thinly. "You all thought I'd be angry, didn't you?"

We nodded dumbly. "If you'd done what you did, and failed, I'd be angry." His grin widened. "But as it stands, I think something had to be done about that… _menace_… and you handled it in style. Now I think most of you could do with a rest…" he cast an amused look at those of us with blackened faces. "And a decent facewash."

The Count, Dave and I tittered at Angus, Simon, Carl and Kevin, all now rubbing their faces ruefully.

"So _Radio Rock _rules the waves once more, and '_life will be ecstasy, you and me, endlessly, grooving'."_

Gavin chuckled. "Yeah," he complimented, and as though that was case closed, Dad switched off the buzzing radio and left the room.

* * *

Smoking may not be terribly good for you, (though the Count was the worst chain-smoker I'd ever seen and he wasn't dead yet) but it was quite beautiful. It was dark, and I dangled my fag above black waves as I leaned over the deckrail on the side of the boat. The lights above the cabin doors caught the smoke as it twisted and spiralled into the ether. Lovely.

I heard a door click and the telltale sounds of Cuban heels on the iron deck. I glanced around to see Gavin join me tentatively. "Wonder if they've found our fish yet," he commented.

I smirked. "I don't think they'll _ever_ find yours," I scolded, "but someone'll have gotten a huge surprise when they found mine."

He chuckled. "I don't think they'll be messing with the Count again anytime soon."

"I don't think anybody will be messing with the Count for a while," I mused. I did, however, realise that the apparent end of my vendetta against Gavin also marked the end of the truce in the mock-battle between the Count and I. "Except me, of course. But I'm fearless."

He smiled, but he didn't understand. "Courtenay, I just wanted to apologise," he said. I took a drag on my cigarette coolly and raised an eyebrow for him to continue. "I know Quentin threatened to kick you off the boat after Elenore…" he decided, wisely, not to finish that sentence. "And I know that it was entirely my fault."

I waited, but that appeared to be it. "You know it's really uncanny when you apologise, don't you," I said ambiguously. He chuckled again.

"It's not something I do easily, or regularly," he admitted. "But I think it's important we… get along. I treated you differently to the other DJs and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

I grinned, tapping ash into the North Sea. "Thank you," I said seriously, taking another drag. "You're right," I added. It is imperative we get along, or Dad will probably make good on his threat to get rid of one of us, and despite his big talk that time, it won't be me." I sighed, eyeing him critically. "You survived without this place for two years. I could never do that."

"Dunno if I could do it again, either," he mused. I looked at him, his strong profile framed against the dark, almost handsome in a rugged sort of way. "I left two years ago to find some sort of meaning in life, you know?" he gazed absently out into the night. "Two years later I finally realised that the only place I'd ever find it was the one I'd left to look."

I smiled. That was oddly poetic; maybe Gavin really wasn't that bad. "A friend of mine once said, 'life should have music'. I didn't really understand what she meant… I said, 'life does have music', and she said 'no, I mean like in the background all the time, like a movie." I lifted the cigarette to my lips again. "But it does, you know? You just have to be willing to listen."

"The thing that makes sense of this crazy world," he said, meeting my gaze for the first time, "is rock and roll."

I smiled. Neither of us said anything for a while; in the comfortable silence, my attention fell back onto the prettiness of the smoke curling away from the point of my cigarette. "You know what I really want to be able to do?" I said confessionally.

"What?"

"Blow smoke rings."

Gavin chuckled, hesitated, then carefully plucked the smoking cigarette from my fingers and took a long drag. I watched, wide-eyed, as he puckered up his lips and puffed; from those lips whooshed a perfect doughnut-shape.

My mouth fell open. "Oh my God," I said excitedly. "How'd you do that?" He grinned.

"You just take a really big breath and…" he took another drag on my cigarette and blew another one.

"That's fantastic," I cried, taking the cigarette back and inhaling. I tried to imitate his lip action, but all that came out of my mouth was the usual cloud of smoke.

"No," he said, "you've got to make the ring in your mouth first, and then sort of _pop_ it out. You can't blow it out or it dissipates." I struggled not to laugh as I tried again. This time I was rewarded with a fat, shaky doughnut. I whooped in excitement and offered him the cigarette again.

"It works even better with coke," he said idly, repeating the miracle. I laughed. He handed it back and his eyes lingered on my face. "Look at us," he said softly. "A month ago you were trying to knock me out, and now we're sharing a cigarette."

"Yeah, well," I replied jokingly, "you can do things with my cigarette I could only dream of." To my surprise, he didn't make a dirty joke out of the statement.

"I learned that in Australia," he said instead.

"You've been to Australia?" I asked in surprise.

"Honey, I've been places you couldn't imagine," he said in his throaty radio voice. I laughed again.

The door clicked open. "Oh, I'm sorry," came a distinctly American drawl. "Am I interrupting."

I turned to look at my beloved Count and flipped him the bird. "Ooh, sorry," he said, sounding far too cheerful to be truly sorry. "Looks like I _am_."

Gavin looked confusedly from my face to the Count's. I knew I didn't look as angry as I was pretending to be, and the Count was even grinning like an idiot. "You two really hate each other, don't you?" he said sarcastically, though he sounded a little confused.

"Absolutely," I said immediately.

"Loathe one another," the Count agreed factually; but the wry grins that told Gavin our hatred was something of an inside joke were almost identical.

"I'm standing here in my favourite place on Earth with the two people I hate most in the whole world," I finished in the same tone. Gavin chuckled again.

"The times, they are a-changing," he commented idly.

I laughed wryly. "You have no idea," I said, and together we turned and went back inside.

Of course, none of us _really_ had any idea at all.

**A/N: I'm going to upload my epilogue right now; I apologise in advance for the distinctly Courtenay/Gavin ending. It wasn't supposed to end up like this.**

**-for you!**


	10. Epilogue Rock and Roll

**A/N: Again, haven't proofread - or even reread, seeing as I typed it straight onto the computer without writing a hard-copy first, so it's probably crap. Sorry. Check again in a week or so, I may have changed it.**

"Mum?"

I stood in one of those cute little red phone booths by the seaside, a towel around my shoulders, shivering. Dad and Gavin stood outside, peering nervously through the glass and trying to read my lips.

"Courtenay? Is that you?" I rolled my eyes.

"Of course it's me, Mum. I'm on a payphone, so I don't have long." I started to tap one fingernail on the glass in impatience. Why was I doing this? I hated my mother. We couldn't live together now if you paid us.

Which was, of course, what Dad planned to do. "Well, what do you want, then?" she asked impatiently.

I gasped. "Mum! It's your daughter calling, remember, the one you haven't spoken to in two and a half years? Haven't you been watching the news?"

"The news?" she asked. I could tell she had.

"Yeah, the bit about the government refusing to save the rebel pirate radio station that I happen to work for?" I closed my eyes and rested my head against the glass. I'd be having nightmares for years.

_I felt like the Little Mermaid, buried under so much crushing water like too many blankets in summer__, struggling to find which way was up._

_Ahead, the Count's American-made boots flashed in front of my eyes. I wriggled my own feet, cursing myself for not wearing less clothing that morning as my thick woollen jumper pulled me down._

_In the depths of my suffocation, I recognised the irony of the situation. I'd dived _back_ into the bowels of the sinking ship to save a man I'd made a hefty pretence of hating since first we met. But I knew – well, I hoped – he'd have done the same for me had I been the stubborn one._

_I thought then, for the first time, that the Count was probably the best friend I had, besides Carl. Ordinarily, that wasn't something I wanted to know, but right then, when I was about to die for him, it was ok._

_Gavin had gone to get him right before we evacuated, but had come back empty-handed. That wasn't good enough for me. I'd dived back down into the already-submerged chambers of _Radio Rock_ to find him._

_He was still broadcasting when I got there, up to his neck in water. As I treaded water and watched expectantly, the radio equipment gave a final squeak and died. "Come on," I called desperately. "We've got to go!" He nodded and dived._

_Now I was drowning, slowly and painfully, as I waited for him to get his fat arse through the door. I'd heard someone say once that drowning was supposed to be a nice way to die, peaceful and tranquil. With roaring in my ears and my head threatening to explode, lungs screaming, every muscle hurting through lack of oxygen, I really wanted to find that person and hold them underwater too. It fucking hurt. Peace was the last thing on my mind._

_The Count finally managed to push himself through the door – I'm sure it would have been easier had the ship not been tilted alarmingly so that the door was above our heads – and I kicked my way after him, my vision blurring, eyes burning from the salt water._

_Ahead, the Count's coat got caught on the doorknob. I swore as loudly as I could in my head, but I still couldn't hear it over the constant roar of the water pouring in over the top of us. I felt my oxygen leaking away drop by drop as I stopped to help him; by the time I'd untwisted the leather jacket, all I could see was vague shapes in the dark as my brain shut down._

_Then all was darkness._

"Yes, I heard," Mum said quietly. "Tom rang and told me. Are you all right?"

My eyes flickered open again at the note of concern in her voice, the only thing that gave away the fact that _surely_ she must have been worried for me. "I'm fine, Mum," I whispered. "But I… I need somewhere to stay until I can get back on my feet again."

There was a long silence, and for a minute I thought she was going to refuse. "Of course, darling. Of course you can stay here."

I took a deep breath in. "Um… It's just… Dad needs somewhere too."

Another long silence. I made a face at Dad through the window and he smiled wearily back. "He can't stay here. Courtenay, sweetheart, your father can find his own place."

"Well…" I held his eyes through the glass. "Mum, he's got nowhere else to go. You won't even know he's there, honestly. None of us. Dad will pay rent for the three of us –"

"Three of you?" I flinched. Oops. "Who _else_ are you bringing?"

"Um…" I fought back a momentary urge to giggle at what her reaction was going to be. "Have you heard of Gavin Kavanagh?"

_I coughed violently and, as though in slow motion and on fire, vomited agonisingly all over the deck of the boat. _

_Then I registered that I was on a boat and opened my eyes. They screamed in agony at their exposure to the air, still stinging from their recent salt bath. My chest hurt, and my throat was aching from the coughing I was still doing. But as my eyes teared up and calmed down, I registered a face._

_Gavin knelt over me, his hands still in CPR position underneath my breasts, tears streaking down his face. "Come on, Court," he said desperately. I coughed weakly._

"_Okay," I said finally. He looked up, hope shining through his face; I tried to smile but every inch of me hurt. _

"_Courtenay!" he pulled me into the tightest hug I'd ever had. I screamed; he was clutching me so hard that even if I hadn't hurt already my bones would have snapped. "Oh, fuck, sorry," he said, putting me down. "Are you okay?"_

"_No," I said shortly. "The Count – where's the Count?"_

"_Right here," came his voice. Gavin helped me to sit up until I could see him, sitting with his back against the side of the yacht we were in and being fussed over by numerous girls. "Thanks for coming back for me."_

_I smiled weakly. "No problem. Thanks for saving me."_

_He shrugged nonchalantly. "It wasn't me. I dragged you out of the boat, but I thought you were dead until Gavin started giving you mouth to mouth."_

_I looked at Gavin. He looked back at me. "Couldn't do it while you were conscious, sweetheart," he said apologetically. I kept staring at him absently. He had saved my life. _

_So I kissed him; it seemed only fair. After I'd planted my lips on his I realised it was probably less than desirable considering I'd just vomited a stomachful of seawater everywhere, but he seemed to be enjoying it. He clutched me tight again – I flinched – and his tongue flicked around mine in interesting ways._

_It was oddly wonderful. As we broke apart the first thing I noticed was the over-patient expression on the Count's face. All right. So many people had told me so. Gavin chuckled again and I looked at his face; he gestured out around us, so I looked. There were hundreds of yachts and dinghies and fishing boats and rowboats surrounding the bubbles and record covers that was once _Radio Rock_, all carrying devoted fans. On one boat I saw Carl in Marianne's arms, his lips moving in words that I was pretty sure would be 'I told you so' if I was close enough to hear them. On another I saw Dad, grinning knowledgeably at me. Simon, Angus, Mark, Dave and even Bob were all facing the three of us on the one boat, smiling and raising cigarettes or champagne glasses or just hands at us. I saw Mark's lips move, then Dave's mimick the movement, then Angus'._

_Gavin bent his head and kissed me again, gently, tenderly, and when we broke apart we echoed the others in unison._

"_Rock and Roll."_

"Of course I've heard of Gavin Kavanagh," Mum replied. "I used to fall asleep listening to him every night because you wouldn't turn your radio down." There was a hint of a smile in her voice.

"Well," I pressed my advantage, "he saved my life last night and he doesn't have anywhere to go either." That, of course, was the clincher. _He saved my life last night_. That one did it. She couldn't refuse after that.

"Am I going to have enough room for all three of you?" I breathed out for the first time since I'd mentioned Dad.

"Of course. Gavin and I will share my old room." My stomach wobbled slightly at the thought.

Mum sniffed. "So you're with some rock and roll DJ now?" she asked huffily.

"Come on, Mum, you know how that feels," I told her slyly. She actually laughed.

"Two weeks," she said. "You can bring your horde for two weeks, and I will tolerate your father's presence not a moment longer." I started the long business of thanking her. "And sweetie?" I shut up promptly. "Hold onto him while you can. From my experience it'll be over before you know it."

I looked out at Gavin. He was in deep and serious-looking conversation with Dad – no doubt getting the 'hurt-her-and-you-die' speech – but when he knew I was looking he looked around and grinned at me. I gave him the thumbs-up.

"Thanks, Mum," I said cheerfully. "We're on our way."

I hung up the phone and shut the door behind me. "Well?" asked Dad expectantly.

"Of course we can stay," I said. "But you have to hide behind me every time we walk past her."

Dad looked at Gavin. "Don't get Courtenay pregnant and then leave her," he told him drearily. "You'll regret it later."

We joined the rest of the DJs, still standing on the beach surrounded by fans. I signed a couple of autographs and then caught Dad's eye again. I grabbed Gavin. "We have to go," I said soberly.

And together we walked away from _Radio Rock_, away from the ocean and the pile of records that people had managed to fish out of it, away from the old life, and towards the new one.

THE END

A**/N: All right, all right. Lame ending. I honestly hadn't planned to have Gavin and Court actually get together - I thought just one kiss - but the romantic side of me got jealous. It hadn't had enough of an airing in this story. Review please with any final thoughts, thank you so much for sticking with me.**

**Because all we really are, in the glorious words of his Royal Highness, the Count of Cool, is fans.**

**-for you!**


End file.
